


Follow You into the Flames

by mmaree



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Banter, Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragons, Fate & Destiny, Happy Ending, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Knight Liam Payne, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Pining, Prince Zayn Malik, Prophetic Visions, Quests, Riddles, Sexual Content, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26635633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmaree/pseuds/mmaree
Summary: “Like I said, you can leave anytime you want,” Zayn snaps. “I’m an alpha and a prince; I can take care of myself.” He pretends he doesn’t hear Liam snort.“I can’t leave. I made a pledge to your mother that—”“Blast the damn pledge!” Zayn curses, throwing his hands in the air. “I release you from your vow, Liam. You can piss off now.”Liam doesn’t get angry like Zayn suspects he would. “I’m sorry, your Highness, but that is the one command from you I cannot obey.” The knight draws his sword and plants it in the earth, then kneels before his prince, head bowed. “I made an oath to your mother that I would protect you, and on my life, I intend to keep that oath.”Prince Zayn + Knight Liam + Omegaverse (A/B/O)
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Comments: 23
Kudos: 92
Collections: Ziam Fantasy Fest





	1. PARTE THE FIRSTE: THE STRANGER AT THE GATE

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thank you to the mods of the [Ziam Fantasy Fest](https://ziamfantasyfest.tumblr.com/) for all their hard work in organising this incredible fic fest! I had originally intended to submit a different fic (which I may still write), but this story kept calling to me, and it just felt right to release it now as part of a fest celebrating the genre of fantasy. Please note that this fic is a work in progress.
> 
> This is a fantasy ABO au, loosely based on/inspired by certain incidents and characters in _A Clash of Kings_ , Book 3 of ASOIAF/ _Game of Thrones,_ Season 3; however, NO KNOWLEDGE OF THE BOOK OR TV SERIES IS NECESSARY. Specifically, Liam’s character is based off Brienne of Tarth. (Trust me—it’ll make sense.) 
> 
> **Please mind the tags and PLEASE do not post this fic (or any of my fics) on another website. Off we go! xx**
> 
> *Fic title (and inspiration) taken from “Flight of the Stars” by Zayn.  
> *A special thank you to [Heather](https://empty-altars.tumblr.com/) for this AMAZING cover and [edit](https://zqua1d.tumblr.com/post/630295765295808512). 
> 
> [](https://imgbox.com/RotUa6Uj)  
> 

“Be quiet, you fool! You’ll wake the prince!”

Zayn’s eyes shoot open, and he sees red. It’s everywhere: on his hands, the sheets, the walls. His heart beats a frantic tattoo as he tears the coverlet off him and bolts up in bed. It takes a moment for his sleep-befuddled brain to register that he’s not hurt, that his bed chamber is merely shrouded in an eerie red glow emanating from his window. 

He looks out upon the full moon—a _blood_ moon—and shivers.

“Wake the prince?” a second man scoffs, and Zayn realises the voices are coming from the other side of the door. “They say he’s the heaviest of sleepers, that one. They say not even the hounds of Hell could stir Prince Zayn from a deep slumber—and that’s without the drowsy syrup.”

Zayn’s gaze darts to his bedside table. There’s his usual goblet of spiced almond milk sitting on its usual silver tray. In the light of the blood moon, however, the milk has a luminous blush. He remembers drinking only a sip or two before consciousness melted away, before he was hurled into the same fiery dream as always.

His brain still feels a tinge foggy, no doubt the after-effects from the sleeping potion. (Luckily, fear seems to be a natural antidote.)

“I still don’t understand why we couldn’t just poison the milk,” the same voice continues, “would’ve made the job much simpler.” 

Zayn leans over to nudge the goblet farther away, just in case.

“Because, you fat-kidneyed knave, the castle would be on high alert if the royal taster came to a sticky end. Now, what in the name of the Four Kingdoms is taking so long with that door?”

“It’s the key,” the second man grumbles. “Blasted thing won’t work.”

“Ye gods, you _are_ useless! Here, give it to me.” There is more jangling followed by more cursing. “You are certain this is the right key?”

“Should be—oh blast! I think I might have mixed it up with the one for the cellars.”

“You ass!” the first man curses. “Make haste and get it. I’ll wait here. On second thought…I better come along in case someone chances to pass this way.”

Then, Zayn hears the blessed sound of retreating footsteps.

He doesn’t bother to dress, just flings a cloak over his long tunic and steps into his boots. He fetches his coin purse and the map he’s been poring over for weeks, ever since The Dream first began. Almost as an afterthought, he grabs his sword from the wall. Finally, he pushes aside a tapestry and knocks twice on the edge of a stone, praying it’s the correct one.

Then, he waits.

He waits for what seems like a thousand lifetimes (all of which end in him being murdered in his bed) when the ancient mechanism suddenly springs to life. He doesn’t hesitate, just leaps into the stale darkness. Behind him, the tapestry swishes back into place as the secret door grinds to a close.

Then, all is quiet.

**+++**

Zayn can’t hear anything now, can’t see anything within the blackness either. A damp smell, like rotting wood, assaults his nostrils, and he instantly recognises it from when he used to wander the secret passageways as a boy. His sense of smell is more sensitive now, so it takes everything within him not to gag. 

Blindly, he guides himself by feeling along the rough wall. The passage begins to slope downward, almost treacherously, and he has to slow down, hugging the wall tightly as he follows each twist and turn. He trips over something, and his imagination instantly classifies it as bones or something equally horrifying, and he doesn’t even want to know.

Finally, he reaches the end of the tunnel. He opens another door, then removes the small grate over his head with the aid of his sword. There’s a smidge more light peeking through now, and he takes a moment to examine the narrow opening above him. He doesn’t recall it being _that_ small, and he curses his broad shoulders under his breath. Eventually, with a little contorting and a lot of effort, he’s able to squeeze through. He crouches next to the stable wall, spitting a piece of hay from his mouth as he tries to think and steady his breathing. 

He has managed to escape the keep, but there is still the castle wall to contend with. And the only thing he knows with certainty is that he needs to leave the castle before ‘they’ find him. Unfortunately, the only way out of the castle is through the main gate, and the gate is always heavily guarded.

Except tonight apparently.

Zayn only spies two guards by the gatehouse. The rest must be assigned elsewhere, but he is not going to question this bit of good fortune. Taking a deep breath, he passes through the stable, talking in a low, soothing voice to the animals who have only just noticed his presence. He lifts a few latches as he goes, leaving the stall doors closed.

Now for the courtyard. 

The area is much vaster than it appears during the day, when the courtyard is bustling with activity. He takes a deep breath, then starts to move, flitting from cover to cover while wishing the moon wasn’t shining quite so brightly. His sword feels heavy on his hip, but he's not used to travelling with it. (He prays he doesn’t need it.)

He is close enough to recognise the two guards at the gate now: Sir Mortin Wormwood, a man with shifty eyes who heads the Kingsguard and Niall Horan, a lad from the distant land of Mullingar. Zayn is surprised because the latter is usually assigned to the keep, often guarding the kitchens or the Great Hall. It’s a blessing, Niall being at the gate, because the boy is probably the closest thing to a friend Zayn has ever known.

Zayn takes a deep breath to calm his nerves as he tries to decide upon a course of action. His first instinct is to set a small fire using the flintstone he chucked into his purse, but he is concerned a blaze might get out of hand, especially with how near he is to the stable with its thatched roof. Besides, a fire might cause a stampede (or worse), and he knows many of the animals are easily spooked.

But that gives him another idea. He searches the ground for a good-sized stone. Once he’s got one, he hurls it with all his might back at the stable wall. He can’t follow its flight, but he can hear the sharp thud it makes as it ricochets off the old wooden wall, piercing the stillness of the night.

At first, he thinks it’s not enough, but then slowly, the stable comes to life.

There’s a cacophony of animal sounds: grunts and growls, screams and squeals, barks and brays. It’s not long before a draught horse bursts through the stable doors and several other four-footed beasts follow.

High above, the guards patrolling the curtain wall start shouting. Several horsemen and stable boys have been awakened as well, and men start to flock towards the escaped animals. 

As Zayn tries to make himself as small as possible behind a wagon, he hears Sir Mortin shout an order to Niall, directing him to remain at the gate while the older man investigates. And once again, Zayn thanks the gods for his good fortune.

Hoping everyone is too occupied by the fracas, Zayn makes a wild dash across the remainder of the courtyard. Before he reaches the gate, however, Niall has spotted him and drawn his sword. Zayn decides to risk calling out before the other boy sounds the alarm.

“Niall,” he hisses, “it’s me!”

“Prince Zayn?” Niall sputters as Zayn lets his hood fall away.

“Open the gate, Niall,” Zayn pleads, desperate as he sees some of the animals have been persuaded back into the stable. “I don’t have time to explain, but I need to leave. _Now_.”

Niall stares at him in shock for another second or two, but then seems to realise the urgency in his voice. Niall flies to the pulley, and the doors open with a groan. No one seems to notice, however, with all the whooping and shouting going on. 

To Zayn’s enormous relief, the portcullis isn’t down; otherwise, he wouldn’t have a prayer of escaping, even with Niall’s help. “If you love me,” Zayn tells him, “shut the gate quickly and don’t let anyone know I’ve gone.”

Niall looks a little frightened as he nods his assent. “The gods be with you, your Highness.”

The heavy gate closes behind Zayn, but he doesn’t have time to get sentimental, not when he could be spotted by a guard at any moment, not when he has to _move_.

He starts running, not thinking of a direction or a destination, just wanting to get away from the phantom voices he left behind at his chamber door. As he trips over a rock, he realises that this is a fool’s journey and wishes he would have had more time to plan his escape. He won’t get far on foot and whoever was after him is likely to continue the hunt outside the castle walls once day breaks and they discover he has disappeared.

That is, if they’re not following him now. 

There’s a hiccup of fear that catches in his throat. At the same time, he becomes aware of a rustling behind him. He tries to convince himself that it is just some harmless nocturnal animal but quickens his pace anyway. He steals a glance behind him, searching for a sign of movement in the dark shadows when—

“Halt!”

Zayn quickly snaps his head back around to find he has nearly run head-on into a knight on horseback. By the light of the blood moon, Zayn sees the knight isn’t adorned with the red and gold of Easthold (but whether that’s good or bad, Zayn can’t decide at the moment). The horse prances back a few feet in a stylish show of dress, and the rider slides gracefully off the animal. The knight is wearing full plate armour, and Zayn whispers a prayer as he grips the hilt of his sword. 

“Don’t come any closer!” Zayn warns, trying to sound like the alpha he is. He steps forward into the pool of moonlight, feigning as much boldness as he can muster under the circumstances. Zayn knows he wouldn’t have a chance against a true knight, especially as underdressed as he is.

But hopefully, the other man doesn’t know that.

The next action from the knight, however, astonishes him. The stranger drops to one knee, head bowed in deference. “Your Highness?” he gasps. The visor on his helmet clinks as he lifts it hurriedly. “What are you doing out of the castle at this late hour?”

Zayn is shocked the man recognises him, especially dressed as he is. Zayn rarely ventures outside the castle walls…or out of the keep for that matter. But this is a time for action over questions, and he needs a horse more than anything else in the world right now. Whether he likes it or not, Zayn has no choice but to trust this man.

“I need to flee Easthold,” Zayn tells the stranger, “post-haste.”

“But your Highness—”

“As your prince, I command you to take me North.”

“North?” the knight baulks. “But the terrain is much safer if we were to ride West or South—”

“ _North_ ,” Zayn repeats, “and ride like the wind!”

The knight is in the saddle in a matter of seconds, and he soon reaches down to pull Zayn up behind him. “Hold on,” the stranger instructs, and it’s the only warning Zayn has before they set off at a blistering pace—or at least one that seems far from prudent in the dead of night with only the light of the blood moon to guide them. 

But with every hoofbeat taking them farther and farther away from the castle, Zayn can breathe _that_ much easier.


	2. PARTE THE SECONDE:  THE KNIGHT’S TALE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Chapter title from _The Canterbury Tales_

“Why did we stop?” Zayn mumbles sleepily, rubbing at his eyes. He lets the knight help him off the horse, then as soon as he’s able to stop yawning, he takes in the new surroundings. They’re in a clearing, deep in the middle of the forest. Dark branches, gnarled and withered, twist towards the sky, and Zayn…doesn’t remember how they got here. He swears they were just on a road.

“You fell asleep,” the knight informs him as he removes his helmet, revealing a shock of brown hair and an honest face. The man begins to unlade his horse, a beautiful snow-white destrier. She stands well over seventeen hands, easily one of the largest warhorses Zayn has ever laid eyes on. “You kept holding on for a while, your Highness, but then you almost slipped out of the saddle, so I figured we had better stop for a short rest.”

Zayn feels antsy, anxious. Drowsy syrup or not, he’s not sure how he managed to fall asleep on a horse, not after what happened back at the castle. “Are we safe here?”

“I don’t know,” the knight answers, pausing in his unpacking to give Zayn a look that is hard to read in the rose-coloured moonlight. “ _Are_ we?”

Zayn doesn’t know how to answer that because he’s not sure who his night visitors were or who sent them. Instinct told him to flee the castle, and he’s not going back, not until he knows it is safe.

(Maybe not ever.)

The horse nickers, eager for attention. “Easy there, Countess,” the stranger coos as he rubs her nose, and the great mare whinnies appreciatively. 

Zayn’s mum always said you could tell a lot about a person by how they treat their animals, so the knight’s gentleness helps lessen Zayn’s immediate fears and concerns. And although Zayn is miles from Easthold, from the castle he has called home all his life, he can’t help feeling that he is safe for now, that this strange knight is more friend than foe. He probably shouldn’t make such assumptions based on pure fancy, but Zayn’s instincts have always been strong. Still, it seems almost too good to be true: a knight loitering about the castle walls after dark, ready to take him wherever he needed to go. 

“Your Highness,” the knight begins somewhat unsurely, “if I’m not being too forward…why did you leave the protection of the castle walls this night?”

Zayn peers up at the blood moon, and it takes him back to the nightmare he had awakened to only hours before. “I heard men outside my solar chamber,” he begins, trembling a little at the memory. “There were at least two, maybe more, but I did not wait to see.” Zayn tears his gaze away from the hypnotic spell cast by the moon. “I managed to escape through a secret passageway.”

The knight appears thoughtful, worry lines etched deep into his brow. “Did you know these men, your Highness? From their voices alone, that is?”

“N-no,” Zayn shudders out. “No one is allowed in the King’s Peace aside from a few trusted servants. These men spoke in dark whispers about potions and poisons, and I fear they did not mean me well.” He doesn’t want to think about the men right now, about who they were, where they came from, and especially who ordered them to visit his chamber in the middle of the night. 

“My apologies, your Highness,” the knight says with a sympathy that doesn’t seem practised. “You are probably dog-tired after such a trying experience, and I did not mean to upset you.” He goes back to unpacking supplies. “You should get some sleep before we ride in the morning.”

“Yes, only…there is something I’d like to know, to put my mind at rest.”

The knight looks straight at him, and Zayn realises for the first time just how young his rescuer is. The boy appears to be his age, maybe even a season or two younger. 

“You wanted to ask me something, your Highness?” 

Zayn reins in his thoughts. “Oh, erm…yes. I’d like to know why you were standing outside the castle gates at the exact moment I needed you.”

“That’s simple, I swore an oath to your mother, the queen, before she died,” the boy tells him. “I was in the service of another family, temporarily, but then about a fortnight ago, I heard there were ‘stirrings’ at Easthold, and…well, let us say I felt it was my duty to return to the castle. I was denied entrance, and I’ve an idea why, but that didn’t sway me from keeping vigil outside the walls, your Highness.”

Zayn can’t hold back his astonishment. “So you’ve just been, like, waiting…outside the castle…for two weeks?”

“Yes, your Highness.”

“For what purpose?”

The knight blinks at him. “In case you needed me, your Highness.”

Zayn is at a loss for words. It seems completely fantastical that some random knight he has never met would wait that long outside the castle walls on the off chance that he might need rescuing. He feels like his suspicions should be heightened with such a mad tale, but the knight has kind eyes, and Zayn is too knackered to try to sort it all out. “And your name?”

“Liam Payne, son of Geoff.” He bows his head again, and Zayn feels a bit silly, carrying on such formalities when they’re in the middle of nowhere.

“You were a godsend,” Zayn tells him, “a true knight in shining armour.”

The other man coughs. “Pardon, my prince, but the expression isn’t a compliment among knights.”

“Oh?”

“No,” the knight explains politely, “it implies that one has no experience in battle.”

Zayn inspects the man’s armour, and even in the dim light, he can tell this armour has seen its share of fighting. Zayn can see the nicks and scratches and dimples embellishing the blue dented steel. “My apologies, Sir Leeyum. That wasn’t my intent.”

“I beg your pardon, but I am not a rightful ‘dubbed’ knight,” the man says, a sad glint in his brown eyes, and Zayn can tell there’s a story there for another time and place. “It is just plain Liam, your Highness.”

“Perfect,” Zayn declares. “And you may call me just plain Zayn.”

“But your High—”

“I think it will make things far less complicated,” Zayn interrupts him. “Besides, I am sure you know as well as I do that it is far safer for the both of us if my identity remains hidden for as long as possible.”

Liam nods grudgingly. “If you wish. And I must tell you that I only own one bedroll, but I would be honoured if you would take it, your High— _Zayn_ ,” he corrects himself. 

“I don’t want it,” Zayn lies. (Truth be told, he could kill for something soft to sleep on after the night he’s had.) But then, as he watches Liam unfurl the bedroll before him, Zayn is struck by a better idea. “It seems large enough for the two of us. Why don’t we share it?”

“No,” the knight answers swiftly, “that…would not be a good idea.”

“Why?”

“You’re a prince and…and an alpha.”

Zayn’s not sure what either of those things have to do with anything. He guesses that means Liam isn’t an alpha—though Zayn had already figured as much. Zayn’s not one to bother much about scents (unless of course it’s the pungent rancour of a hostile alpha or the sweet, intoxicating aroma of an omega nearing their heat), but Liam’s scent definitely doesn’t exude “alpha” to him. In truth, it doesn’t exude much of anything at the present moment, and that makes Zayn even more confident that the boy must be a beta.

“I insist, your Highness,” Liam repeats, laying the bedroll over a soft, dry patch of clover and grass. “I do not think I will be getting much sleep this night anyway,” he declares, and Zayn is too knackered to argue, so he lets Liam have his way. 

“Goodnight, Leeyum,” he yawns, climbing into the surprisingly comfortable and sweet-smelling bedroll. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

**+++**

Someone is calling his name, but Zayn ignores them because he doesn’t want to wake up. (He _is_ the prince after all.) He wants to stay in his dream a little while longer, wants to remain wrapped up in his blankets where everything is cosy and nice. He breathes in deeply, nose pressed against something soft, and there it is, the scent that’s better than any smell that has ever come wafting up from the castle kitchens. 

The aroma is hard to describe. It’s sweet, but not sickeningly so, and it’s a little earthy, too. It reminds Zayn of the candied chestnuts—or _marrons glacés_ as Harold the baker had called them—that had been served at his twentieth nameday feast last winter. 

Sugar and chestnuts; chestnuts and sugar. The scent fills up his senses and leaves him warm and comforted (but wanting more). He sighs contentedly, wishing it was stronger, wishing he could breathe it in forever….

“Zayn, we really should be on our way.” The words are accompanied by a soft caress on his cheek, as if someone is trying to gently coax him from his dream. 

Dopily, his eyelids flutter open, and he sees…the face of the knight. Zayn makes a piteous noise as all the memories of the previous evening come rushing back to him. He isn’t in his bed, but in the middle of a desolate wood, somewhere miles from the castle.

He allows himself a few more moments to wallow in self-pity, then reminds himself he has been blessed more than most. And it might be mad, but something inside of him is screaming that he is exactly where he needs to be at this very moment.

So he gets up and gets on with it.

**+++**

By the time the sun is high in the sky, they’ve ridden for hours. They stay just off the road, keeping to the treeline. There aren’t many travellers this way, but every now and then, they hear the distant rumblings of a cart, and Liam doesn’t take any chances. He steers Countess deep into the cover of the forest and waits until the sounds fade into the distance. Then, they set off again at the fastest (and smoothest) gait Duchess can manage with two riders on her back.

At long last, Zayn spots a town in the distance. “Where are we?” he asks, and yes, Zayn is the one with the map, but he is beginning to learn that the ability to read maps and the ability to know where one bloody is in actual practice are vastly different skills.

“Greygulch,” Liam answers with a certainty that only comes with having travelled these roads before. “Let’s stop here.” The knight pulls back on the reins sharply, and even though they weren’t moving very fast, Countess makes a hard stop and Zayn’s not ready. His body is propelled up and forward, and he loses his seat. Desperately, he flings his arms around the knight’s torso, fingers grasping for purchase but only finding the knight’s smooth breastplate. Zayn latches on to it anyway, latches on to it and to Liam. 

Liam…his rescuer, his knight in dull dented steel armour.

They both end up in the grass.

It’s a miracle, really, that Zayn hasn’t broken any bones (or he doesn’t think he has anyway). Zayn _has_ had the wind knocked out of him though—proper good, too. He’s not sure who broke whose fall or how he ended up sprawled on top of Liam when Zayn was the one who fell first and dragged the knight after him. 

But Zayn isn’t really thinking about any of that.

No, he’s focused on how hard Liam is breathing, transfixed by the steady rise and fall of the knight’s chest despite the armour. But most of all, Zayn is captivated by the reoccurrence of _that scent_. It’s much fainter this time, but it’s still present, still traceable over the stench of sweat and dirt and horse dung. 

The horse dung he is currently elbow-deep in.

There isn’t much he can do except jump up and curse his rubbish luck, then find a clean patch of grass to try to wipe his elbow clean. Somehow the muck gets on his tunic, the long shapeless one he was nearly murdered in, and he’s sure he must look a right mess now.

Liam groans as he gets up. The knight’s helmet has rolled a short distance away, nearer to the road, and Zayn goes to fetch it for him. As Zayn hands it over, he mumbles an apology, but the knight is too caught up with soothing Countess. The mare’s tail is swishing back and forth, and she keeps nudging Liam with her muzzle everywhere, seemingly checking if he’s still in one piece. (He is—Zayn already checked.) The horse doesn’t seem to care two turnips about whether Zayn survived the fall or not, and he starts to wonder whether she tried to dump him off her back on purpose. (In all fairness, Zayn wouldn’t blame her if she did. After all, _he_ wouldn’t want to carry two grown men on his back either.)

Finally, the mare settles down, and Zayn puts a hand on Liam’s armour-clad shoulder in an effort to get his attention. “I really am sorry. Guess I’m not used to Countess’ stops yet,” he offers with a sheepish smile, but Liam still refuses to look at him. In fact, the knight angles himself away from Zayn even more. “Leeeyuuum,” he whinges, frustrated that the knight won’t even speak to him.

Liam does turn to him then. He tucks his helmet under his arm, then removes one of his gauntlets. “No offense, your Highness,” Liam says, plugging his nose, “but you smell like shit.”

To be fair, the man’s not wrong because Zayn _does_ smell like shit—like horseshit to be precise.

Zayn pretends to glare at the knight, but it’s hard to stay proper angry at someone whose smile has been fashioned out of sunbeams. Regardless, it’s not right that Liam gets to take shots at him when the scent that lingers on Liam and his bedroll has been driving Zayn mad since the moment he awoke. 

“At least I’ll be able to wash the stink of horseshit off me as soon as we find soap and water,” he grunts, and yeah, maybe he didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but it’s _frustrating_ having to deal with the hint of that sweet scent constantly. Plus, now that the shock has started to wear off, his body is beginning to feel the discomfort of the fall.

Still, the intensity of Liam’s reaction surprises him. 

“What did you mean by that?” the knight asks stiffly, as if he’s been shot with an arrow between his shoulder blades.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Your bedroll,” he answers. “It positively reeks of some sweet-smelling omega, and I just got a whiff of it on you again.” Zayn sniffs the air, but all his nostrils take in is something caramelly, like burnt sugar, and the scent mixes with the ripe horse dung smudged on his tunic and elbow. 

Liam mumbles out an apology, looking ashamed for some reason, and Zayn can’t suss out why. Most of the lads he has known—alpha or beta—would boast about bedding a delicious-smelling omega like that, but apparently, Liam isn’t a typical beta. 

And now Zayn worries he has said something wrong. After all, he doesn’t know anything about the knight. The scent might belong to an omega in his family—a sister, perhaps. The scent could even belong to a love he’s lost, and now Zayn feels like an ass for bringing the subject up. “My apologies if I have said something to offend you.”

“It is nothing,” Liam dismisses, sounding sour despite his words to the contrary. “I am sorry the scent displeases you.”

“It doesn’t displease me, Leeyum,” Zayn returns, wishing he could understand exactly what he said that offended the knight so. “In truth, it is quite…pleasing,” he admits, now fearing he has said too much.

The knight appears almost timid as he faces Zayn again. “You…you don’t mind it then? Like, it doesn’t repulse you?”

“No,” Zayn snorts, _really_ praying the scent doesn’t belong to Liam’s sister now. “In fact, when I was lying in the bedroll last night, I found the scent distracting in the best way.”

Liam immediately puts on his helmet again but not before Zayn spots the rosy blush in his cheeks.

And that’s when it dawns on Zayn, what Liam must be thinking. “I did not mean to suggest that I, er, _did_ anything in your bedroll during the night,” Zayn says hurriedly, correcting any wrong impressions the knight might have gotten from his last statement. “I swear I would never, um, defile—"

“If it pleases your Highness, might we discuss another matter?” the knight interrupts, and Zayn is more than happy to change the subject.

“It’s ‘Zayn,’ and yes, of course.”

Liam tips up his visor and clears his throat. “This town should be relatively safe—if we’re in and out quickly, that is.” 

“Good, I’m starved,” Zayn declares, rubbing his hands together, “and I could certainly do with some new clothes.”

Liam looks hesitant. “On further thought, it might be better if I go alone to ensure you’re not recognised.”

“Why would I be recognised here?”

Liam’s lips curl up in sly amusement. “Well, for starters, you have the royal crest embroidered on your cloak.”

Zayn quickly doffs his black cloak and realises Liam is right. He had completely forgotten about the small red and gold crest; he’ll have to remember to cut it out with Liam’s knife later. “I’ll flip it around before I put it back on. We good?”

“Well…,” Liam hesitates, cheeks turning rosy again, “there’s also the problem that you’re not wearing anything under that under-tunic except boots.”

“And how do you know _that_ , Leeyum?” Zayn teases, enjoying the flustered look on the other boy’s face much more than he should. “As it happens, I’ve me braies on to protect the tackle down there, so you can quit looking like a blushing virgin,” he laughs. “But I see your point. I can’t exactly march into Greygulch dressed like this, can I?” He peers down, and it’s almost comical how his skinny legs stick out of his half-laced boots, his white tunic billowing in the wind like a gown now that he’s got his cloak bundled in his arms.

“Then we agree that it’s best if I go alone?”

“Actually…,” Zayn begins, flipping his cloak around so that the crest of Easthold is hidden, “I was thinking you could get hose for me and return post-haste.”

“But Zayn—”

“I am _not_ staying here by myself, Leeyum,” Zayn states adamantly, “not any longer than I possibly have to.” He’s not using his alpha voice yet, but he will if Liam persists. 

(Luckily, he doesn’t have to.)

“As you wish,” Liam sighs.

The knight returns directly with the hose Zayn requested. Liam also hands him a new tunic, black with long sleeves, so Zayn doesn’t have to keep wearing the soiled one. The knight then turns away, giving Zayn privacy while he changes. 

“I’m ready,” Zayn announces as he pulls his leather boots back on, lacing them all the way up his calves this time. “Do I look presentable now?”

Liam stares at Zayn a moment, looks as if he wants to say something, but then shakes his head.

“Something wrong, Leeyum?” Zayn asks, suddenly concerned. “Did you spot men from Easthold or something?”

“No—no, nothing like that,” Liam assures him, expression still troubled. “Zayn, tell me…why do you say my name like that?” 

Zayn blinks at him. “Like what, Leeyum?”

“Like….” Liam shakes his head, his soft locks flopping gently with the movement. “Never mind—I don’t know why I asked you that. Anyway, let’s get Countess sorted and go. Just…try to be discreet and let me do all the talking, yeah?”

**+++**

Despite its name, Greygulch is alive with colours and sounds: the burnished bronze of the dancers’ bangles, the trilling of a fife; the scarves with bold patterns in rich greens and bright blues, the merchants barking out their wares. It’s exciting—if a little loud—and it reminds Zayn of a Feast Day in the Great Hall back home (only far more chaotic). 

He follows Liam through the winding, cobblestoned lanes, taking it all in. It’s a whole new experience, one he wishes he had more time to savour.

In fairness, Zayn doesn’t get out of the castle much. Indeed, he has hardly seen much of Easthold beyond the keep although there were times growing up when he would sneak out through the secret passageway in his chamber, the one everyone seemed to have forgotten about, and roam the courtyard and beyond with a cloak slung over his small shoulders. He’d visit the bakehouse and the stables, do things the normal boys would do until he was inevitably picked up by one of the castle guards. Then he would be reprimanded by his father, King Ivarn, while Queen Patricia begged her husband to forgive their son for his reckless adventuring.

And his mother, a strong and loving beta, was never afraid to stand up to the alpha king, especially for her son’s sake. Still, she cautioned Zayn about his adventuring when they were alone, warned him that his father didn’t like him to be seen, that it wasn’t safe for him beyond the keep. When he invariably would ask why, she’d only say that there were things he didn’t know, things she hoped he’d never find out.

Zayn would cry tears of repentance into her bosom, promising never to leave the keep on his own again. And each time, he would intend to keep his promise, but then, weeks or even months would pass, and the itch to escape the same mundane walls suffocating him would return.

And with the secret passageway hidden behind a tapestry in his solar chamber, the temptation was too much to ignore.

As Zayn grew older, he became more cautious, donning the clothes of a commoner on his excursions. He’d choose times when the courtyard would be teeming with people, when it wouldn’t be remarkable to see one more peasant boy wandering through the throng. He’d make his visits shorter, too. Doing all this, he would generally escape detection. When Zayn became a lad of eleven years, however, he ceased his secret visits to the courtyard altogether.

It was because of a lashing.

Of course, not a hand was laid on his royal skin— _that_ he probably could have withstood. No, King Ivarn ordered a guard named Higgins to receive the lashing. Higgins was more than a guard though. The man was Zayn’s minder and a friend he loved dearly. Higgins had been stationed outside his solar chamber that day and when Zayn was caught in the courtyard, the guard received a punishment for ‘neglecting his duties.’ When the lashes started, each strike of the whip more brutal than the last, Zayn dropped to his knees, beseeching the king to let him explain, but as usual, his father wouldn’t listen, and Zayn’s mother wasn’t present to intercede. Zayn was muffled and dragged out of the Great Hall, kicking and screaming while King Ivarn ordered the lashings to continue.

And they did. Forty of them (or so he’d later been told). 

His mother came to his room later that night and explained that Higgins had been ‘sent away.’ Zayn prayed to the gods that she wasn’t shielding him from an even darker truth.

He never saw Higgins again. 

He never used the secret passageway after that either—well, up until last night.

“Ah, that would do nicely for you!” Liam announces suddenly, pulling Zayn from his gloomy thoughts. “What do you think, Jack?” 

It takes Zayn a moment to realise that Liam is speaking to him. “Oh…right,” the prince replies, finally getting that Liam is being extra cautious since they’re still within a day’s ride of Easthold. They are stood in front of a forge, and Liam is pointing to what appears to be some type of elaborate chainmail reinforced with leather. “Is it really necessary?” Zayn asks, eying the mail uncertainly. It looks heavy—not as heavy as Liam’s full plate armour—but still.

“Yes, we need to get you something in case we run into trouble on the road,” Liam insists, “and this is a good deal better than an arming coat.” He turns to the blacksmith. “How much for that, my good man?”

“120 shillings, m’lord,” the burly blacksmith answers, laying it on the board in front of them. “Made from the finest steel and boiled leather,” he boasts proudly, “although I would suggest you try it on first.”

Liam’s shoulders droop. “I am afraid we’ll have to look at something less costly,” he says, running a hand over the intricate linkwork. “And we are searching for armour for my friend here, not me,” the knight explains.

“Alas, that is a shame then!” the smith laments, eyes scanning Zayn’s figure. “I would accept 100 shillings for it, only because this piece of mail looks as if it were made for him.”

Zayn’s not sure how the blacksmith can tell, what with the cloak he’s wearing and all, but Zayn wouldn’t disagree. This piece of armour _does_ look like it would fit him perfectly. 

Zayn glances at Liam, and instantly, he can see how much the knight wants to buy the cursed armour even though Zayn is certain it’s the last thing he needs. (If anything, he figures the chainmail will only weigh him down as he’s running away, but he doesn’t tell Liam that.) 

With a sigh, the prince reaches for the purse he tucked into his belt, not having anywhere else to keep it. He counts out five coins and hands them to the smith who compliments his taste and bids them well.

Zayn lugs the armour off the board, and admittedly, it isn’t as heavy as he expected.

( _Still._ )

He’s about to slide his purse back into his belt when he glances at the knight. “You want to hold the purse? I’ve nowhere to put it in these clothes, and besides, I fancy you’d have a better idea of what everything costs and such, considering I never really had need of coin in the ca—” 

“—Cottage where you grew up,” Liam finishes hurriedly for him.

Zayn blanches. He can’t believe he nearly made a slip that could have cost him far more than his purse if the wrong people were around to hear it. “Ah yes…thank you. But as I was saying, it is probably best if you handle the coin.”

“But—”

Zayn cuts the knight off by thrusting the bag at him. “Basically everything we’re getting is for me, Leeyum, and I trust you not to run off with it,” he muses before lowering his voice. And even if you did, I owe you far more than what that purse contains for rescuing me.”

Liam’s brow creases with worry. “Well, we’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Not to split hairs, but we _are_ out of the woods,” the prince teases, hand sweeping out to indicate the lively, bustling trade town. “We’re in Greygulch, mate.”

The knight groans, then flips his visor down so Zayn can’t see his face. He keeps the purse, concealing it within the protection of his armour.

A short time later, they stop at an alehouse. Liam seems to know the alewife, a large red-faced woman with an infectious, booming laugh. The knight goes over to speak to her and at first it’s a jovial exchange, but soon their conversation is steeped in guarded gestures and intense whispers.

Liam returns with two tankards of ales, and Zayn looks at him curiously. The knight discreetly glances about the common room to make sure their conversation is private before opening his mouth:

“News from Easthold,” Liam divulges after he’s taken a drink. Some of the frothy foam lingers on the man’s upper lip, and quite inexplicably, Zayn has the urge to reach across the table and smooth the pad of his thumb across it.

But he holds himself back, and eventually, Liam takes care of it himself.

Zayn clears his throat and tries not to let his mind wander again. “Is the news good or bad?”

“I’m not quite certain,” Liam replies, but Zayn can see the uneasiness in his brown eyes. “They say the, er, prince of Easthold has left on a journey to the Kingdom of the West.”

“ _What_?”

Liam gives him a warning with his eyes. “The prince is apparently on a mission of goodwill,” he reports even though they both know that the prince can’t be on a mission of goodwill in the Kingdom of the West if he’s currently drinking ale in Greygulch.

As he downs his ale, Zayn ponders why the castle would lie about his whereabouts when it was discovered the royal prince was missing. He had assumed there might be a search party, but this? Zayn wonders who discovered he was gone and who made the decision to cover up his disappearance and why. It is difficult to imagine King Ivarn not having a hand in all of it, too, but the _why_ still plagues him.

Soon, they’re back to searching for warm, suitable clothing for Zayn. They manage to find just about everything he needs: gloves, stockings, a proper swordbelt, an under-tunic, and a black doublet and breeches. 

They also pick up supplies and food. Liam seems particularly obsessed with ensuring Zayn has his own bedroll. But really, Zayn’s not sure why they can’t just share the one instead of lugging a second around. (Actually, Zayn’s not sure why they can’t just sleep at the cosy-looking inn they passed earlier, but Liam insists it’s not safe. The knight hasn’t led him astray yet, so Zayn sighs and accepts that he won’t be sleeping in a warm bed any time soon. Zayn is able to convince Liam to return to the alehouse so that he can wash the muck of the road off and change into his new clothes, and at least that’s _something_.)

They don’t find a horse, not one that is suited for making a long journey at least. Apparently, there is a shortage of good horses, all the best ones having been ‘borrowed’ in the name of the king.

(And really, Zayn shouldn’t be surprised by anything his father, King Ivarn the Dreaded, does at this point.)

Then, they pack up their haul and ride North again.

**+++**

It’s cold that night.

They camp out in the woods again. Zayn makes a fire while Liam skins a rabbit he caught earlier. Zayn looks away because even though the creature can’t feel any pain now, he’s never been one for hunting, never truly understood what it was like to be forced to live off the land completely until now.

But he’s learning.

After they’ve eaten, they settle down in front of the fire and warm their hands. It’s a luxury, being far enough away from everything and everyone where they can risk a fire. (Zayn remembers a very different type of luxury back at the castle, things like steaming hot baths perfumed with lavender, fluffy feather bedding, and a library stacked floor-to-ceiling with manuscripts from across the Four Kingdoms. He misses that last one most of all.)

“I’m ashamed to say,” Liam announces as the fire starts to crackle, “that I thought you’d be a bit useless when it came to building a fire.”

Zayn has become accustomed to people assuming things about him by now, but he appreciates that the knight is at least open about it. Regardless, he’s not going to let the remark slide by without comment. “Did you not think a prince could do something as simple as start a fire?”

“Well, I did not reckon you’d build a proper fire faster than anyone I’ve ever seen,” Liam acknowledges, “even _with_ using a flintstone.”

Zayn shrugs. “It’s a natural talent, I suppose.”

“Should’ve guessed that,” Liam returns with a self-effacing twist of his lips.

“Why?”

Liam regards him for a long moment, face painted by the light of the flickering flames and a delicate uncertainty. “Because of your scent,” he answers at last, searching Zayn’s eyes to make sure he hasn’t offended the prince. 

“I still do not follow you,” Zayn says, and he’s not insulted—just perplexed. Like most alphas, Zayn presented early, and he has always been told that his scent is closest to that of saffron. It’s something he has taken pride in, the fact that his scent resembles the richest and most complex of spices. His mum once told him saffron was known throughout the land as ‘red gold,’ and Zayn liked that, too. Red and gold were the colours of Easthold, and it seemed right somehow that it all connected.

And that’s why he is puzzled by Liam’s statement, because he cannot fathom how the scent of saffron could possibly relate to Zayn’s ability to build a fire.

“Your scent has a smoky quality to it,” Liam explains shyly, “but I’m sure you are aware of that.”

Zayn shakes his head. No one has ever specifically told him that although it makes sense. He has always felt an affinity with fire, a kinship. Even so, he finds it a little astonishing that Liam, a beta, should be the one to bring it to his attention. Betas aren’t exactly known for their superior scenting abilities, but Zayn is sure there are exceptions.

“Really?” Liam asks, sounding surprised that he is the first to mention that aspect of the alpha’s scent. “There’s the saffron of course,” he says, confirming what Zayn has always known, “but there’s definitely a smoky note, too, like when you blow out a candle or”—his forehead scrunches up as he thinks—“or like the way the smoke from a fire lingers even after the last of the embers have died out. It’s just like that.”

Zayn turns to gaze at the other boy, a curious wondering filling his soul. This beta isn’t only the exception…he’s exceptional.

(But Zayn can’t think such things. He barely knows this boy, and besides, there’s too much at stake.)

“Forgive me,” the knight apologises, ducking his head. “That was probably impertinent of me, to be discussing something so personal as your scent.”

“No,” Zayn reassures him, “not at all, Leeyum.”

They call it a day soon after that, and Zayn eventually drops off to sleep in his new bedroll, one that doesn’t smell of glazed chestnuts.

**+++**

“Why must I always be the one to ride in the back?” Zayn grumbles the following morning as Liam attaches some pillow contraption to the rear of the saddle. It’s something the knight bought at Greygulch after they couldn’t find Zayn a horse.

“Because Countess will follow my commands better and because you’re lighter,” Liam answers, and the alpha in Zayn recoils at the size comparison even though he knows it’s true— _especially_ because he knows it’s true. And it’s doubly true when the knight is decked out in full bloody armour instead of just the tunic and breeches Liam is dressed in now (along with his swordbelt, of course).

Zayn doesn’t comment, but Liam huffs in exasperation and whips around to face him anyway. “Don’t think I like this arrangement either,” the knight snaps, “it’s exhausting for Countess to have to carry two riders _plus_ the additional supplies we picked up in Greygulch.”

Zayn throws up his hands. “Why are you going off? I didn’t say a word, mate.”

“It’s…your scent,” Liam confesses haltingly. “I can smell your aggravation.” 

And once more, Zayn is a bit stupefied by how keen the beta’s scenting abilities are.

Because Zayn _is_ aggravated. He is aggravated that he’s stuck sleeping in a cold bedroll on hard ground when he should be snug in his bed back at Easthold. He is aggravated that Liam looks well rested, looks as if he’s been up for hours even though it’s barely dawn. (He is aggravated, too, that Liam isn’t wearing his armour yet because the knight is _always_ wearing his armour). But most of all, he is aggravated because he _hates_ having to ride doubleback, and to make matters worse, he is still sore from when he fell off the mare’s rump yesterday. 

And Zayn gets that none of this is Liam’s fault, that none of it is anyone’s fault really.

(But that doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.)

With a disgruntled sigh, Zayn plonkers off to get ready for the day’s ride. His sword is resting on top of his bedroll, and as he goes to lift it, the bloody thing slides out of the scabbard.

“So you know how to use that?”

“Of course,” Zayn scoffs, sheathing the blasted thing. “You know how to use yours?” he retorts before looking down at Liam's very large...sword. He quickly blinks and definitely doesn’t think about Liam’s sword (or anything else).

“Yes,” the knight answers proudly, looking the smarmiest Zayn has ever seen him. “I take to the sword twice a day, at sunup and sundown, seven days a week.”

“Seven days a week?” Zayn whistles, eyes drifting down to Liam’s…sword again before he catches himself. “Must give you loads of time for recreation.”

“Your Highness,” Liam admonishes, and he sounds remarkably like Zayn’s tutor whenever the prince was caught reading a book on alchemy or the stars instead of some boring, detailed account of the battle of this or that. “You may jest if it pleases you but understand that I pledged my life to your mother as I pledge my life to you. I made an unbreakable vow to her that I would watch over you and protect you from harm, so please understand that I will do whatever it takes to keep my oath.”

The outburst effectively puts Zayn in his place. It also makes him question whether his mother foresaw a day when the prince would need a loyal, sworn sword. In truth, Zayn wouldn’t be surprised if she had foreseen all of this.

“So where are we headed, your Highness?” Liam asks after he finishes fiddling with Countess’ saddle. 

“First of all, please stop with the ‘your Highnesses’ and second of all…North.”

“Yes, I know we’re headed North,” Liam returns a little testily, “but I was hoping for a little more than that.”

“Well, I don’t know, not exactly,” Zayn admits, feeling flustered. “And even if I did, I couldn't risk telling you.”

Liam makes an exasperated noise. “But I was the sworn sword to your mother!”

“Says you.”

Liam storms off, and Zayn thinks that’s probably a good thing. Mornings were never a friend to Zayn, and he’s been struggling with who and what to believe after he was nearly murdered while asleep in his bed at the castle.

And it’s not that he doesn’t trust Liam because he does—mostly. He trusts Liam because the knight was there at his hour of need, because the knight hasn’t given Zayn a reason _not_ to trust him (yet). 

Most of all, though, Zayn trusts Liam because he doesn’t have any other choice.

(But that doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.)

**+++**

They make decent progress for the first few hours, but when Countess’ smooth running-walk slows to a bumpy amble, Liam suggests they take turns walking alongside the warhorse. Zayn is happy to volunteer first, and honestly, it feels wonderful to be able to stretch his legs. A light breeze licks at his heels and tickles the back of his neck, and the blue sky seems wider and bluer than he ever thought possible.

And somehow, things don’t seem quite as bad as they did before.

They rest a while under a shady tree, eating a light dinner consisting of yeasty bread and hard cheese. Then, they alternate between riding solo and leading Countess on foot throughout the rest of the day. Zayn is adamant about taking the longer walking shifts—not only because it’s easier for him to walk, what with the fact that he is wearing less armour than the knight—but because it helps him clear his head.

Either way, it’s a relief not to have to be so close to Liam and that sugary chestnut scent. It’s barely there really, just a trace, but it never goes away, not completely. Zayn guesses that the light, earthy chestnut scent must belong to the knight, but somehow, it has become enmeshed with the sweeter scent of the unknown omega who shared Liam’s bedroll.

Zayn can’t explain why the two scents cling to each other, but they do. He can’t explain why it affects him so either.

(But it does.)

**+++**

That evening, they’re sat before the fire after supper again. Liam has already removed his plate armour, and they’re both relaxing after another tiring day on the road. Zayn decides it’s as good a time as any to discover answers to the questions that have been plaguing him about the knight.

“Liam, tell me about this oath you keep going on about.”

Liam’s expression transforms into one Zayn has observed more than once on the young knight: serious, solemn, and determined. “I swore an oath to your mother, the queen, shortly before…she passed.”

“Yes, you told me that already. But I’m curious—how did you even know her? I do not recall your being in the castle guard.”

Liam hesitates. “It’s a long story. Are you certain you want to hear it?”

“I would not have asked otherwise.”

Liam nods, then takes a moment or two to gather his thoughts. “I was also born inside the castle walls at Easthold,” he begins, and Zayn looks at him closer now, closer than he’s done before. “Queen Patricia saw me come to the aid of a weaker boy one day, and offered me the dream of a lifetime, the chance to become a knight.” Liam says the last word with veneration, like it’s a holy word, a sacred word. His eyes light up, sparkle with the flames of the fire as he continues. “She said she could tell I had a ‘noble soul’ which is ridiculous of course,” he scoffs. “I’m no highborn; I was the kennel keeper’s son, but Queen Patricia”—the knight swallows thickly—“she saw something greater in me.”

Heart heavy, Zayn stares into the fire again. He has never told a living soul, but he can see things in fire sometimes: the ghosts of the past, jumbled visions of the future. Zayn had first seen the dragon’s egg while staring into the fireplace in the Great Hall weeks ago. Not long after, The Dream began and he knew he was meant to find it, even if it brought him to the ends of the Four Kingdoms (or beyond).

He’s not ready to tell Liam about the egg though, not yet.

At the moment, Zayn doesn’t see any eggs—dragon’s or otherwise—as he watches the scarlet and amber flames dance before him. No, he only sees his mum’s loving and watchful eyes. He mulls over what Liam has just told him, and he can’t help but think of how it was so like his mum to do something like that, some random act of goodness. As he glances at the other boy, Zayn reckons he understands what his mum meant when she told the younger Liam that he had a ‘noble soul.’ 

He keeps that to himself as well. Keeps it to himself, and the fire, and the sanctity of night.

“She was always kind to me,” Liam resumes after a long silence. “Queen Patricia was kind to all the children who dwelt inside the castle walls.”

“She was kind to everyone,” Zayn agrees, wiping away a stray tear. It has been near on four years, but the sting is still there. Zayn misses his mum, misses her humour and her inner beauty and grace. He misses the way she always understood how he felt, understood _him_ , even though she could do little to ease his father’s constant pressure to mould him into a man, an alpha, and a king.

Liam clears his throat. “I used to see you once in a while, you know.”

“Oh?”

The knight nods. “Sometimes I’d be out playing hide-and-seek with the other children, and I would catch a glimpse of Prince Zayn, heir to the throne of the Kingdom of the East.” 

For a moment, it’s as if Liam is talking about someone else, and Zayn almost wishes he were. “Please go on,” he urges.

“Well, I’d be mucking about with the other children,” Liam resumes. “We would run about in places we probably shouldn’t have been, ‘jousting’ with sticks fashioned after swords and lances. For the longest time, I wondered why you didn’t play with us, but that was before I realised who you were and what that meant.”

“Wasn’t allowed to,” Zayn mutters, scratching at the ground with the end of a twig he’d just picked up. “I studied and trained and played chess with my tutor.”

Zayn hadn’t been allowed to do much of anything.

He had spent much of his life locked away in parapets and towers, and yet…he seems to recall seeing a boy who looked a lot like this Liam only softer. That boy had light brown curls and a carefree smile; he didn’t have the expectations of an entire kingdom on his small shoulders as Zayn did. And Zayn remembers liking the boy’s face and wishing they could be friends. The young prince had even searched for the boy on one or two of his secret trips to the courtyard.

But Zayn had never found him. (Maybe he wasn’t meant to.)

Eventually, there came a day when the boy disappeared. Then again, perhaps Zayn had simply stopped looking, too consumed with his duties and responsibilities as prince.

“Why did you not stay at Easthold though,” Zayn asks, “at least during your time as a page?”

“Queen Patricia thought it best that I train in the South, where no one would know me as the kennel keeper’s son. She said the greatest knight she had ever known hailed from the Kingdom of the South. Anyway,” Liam inserts, skipping ahead in his story, “when I was sixteen, I returned to Easthold.”

“Wait—did you say sixteen?” Zayn interrupts. “I thought knights were supposed to stay in training until at least their eighteenth nameday or something?”

Liam bites his lip. “I presented just after my sixteenth nameday.”

“So? Betas have been knighted for centuries. I’m sure alphas still vastly outnumber betas in their ranks, but even at Easthold, I know of several betas in the Kingsguard and such. Is that not the case in the Kingdom of the South?”

Liam gives him a tortured look. “I’m not a beta, Zayn.”

Zayn blinks at him in confusion. “I don’t understand. We’ve spent every waking minute together, and you sure as hell don’t smell like an alpha to me,” he blurts out. He is careful not to say more than he should. Zayn can’t reveal that he finds the boy’s scent not altogether displeasing, especially now that he _knows_ it is Liam’s scent. And if there is one thing Zayn is absolutely certain of, it’s that Liam’s scent, however faint, _is definitely not alpha_. 

“Leeyum…if I remember correctly, you basically told me you weren’t an alpha the night you rescued me.” He draws back as mistrust starts to simmer inside of him.

“Think about it,” Liam mumbles.

And then it hits him, what Liam’s getting at. Zayn’s eyes scan the muscular physique of the man before him. Liam is clearly bigger than Zayn—a shade taller, too. Though some of the physical differences between them could be attributed to the fact that Liam has spent more time “taking to the sword” while Zayn was taking to the books, the idea that the strapping knight before him is an omega seems completely out of the realm of possibilities. 

Zayn regards the other man with thinly veiled scepticism. “Aren't you rather large for an omega, Sir Liam?”

“Like I told you, I’m not a ‘sir,’” Liam sighs. “As I mentioned before, I wasn't deemed worthy of that honour.”

“You never told me why,” Zayn reminds him.

“Because of my dynamic. I’m an omega, Zayn, and there’s no such thing as an omega knight,” Liam states as if it’s something he has heard over and over again, as if it’s a truth of the universe: unchangeable, undeniable.

And Zayn can understand that. He knows what it’s like, people judging you and making assumptions based on your dynamic. He has felt it all his (almost) one-and-twenty years. People telling him he should act more like an alpha. People telling him he shouldn’t read, or sing, or star-gaze. People telling him he shouldn’t be soft, that it doesn’t suit an alpha or future king. 

And suddenly Zayn gets it— _truly_ gets it. “Omegas aren’t allowed to become knights?” he reiterates, and Liam nods resignedly, not looking at him. The other boy appears beaten down—or even worse—ashamed. “Well, I think that's shit.”

There’s a cautious hope in Liam’s eyes when he lifts his gaze. And Zayn has only just noticed it now, but the other boy’s eyes are a warm chestnut brown and there’s a sweetness in them that matches the omega’s scent. Zayn is surprised he never made the connection before.

“You think so?” Liam asks shyly. “You really think it’s a dumb rule?”

“I think it’s complete codswallop,” Zayn declares, and there it is again, that glorious smile. It’s radiant, like a thousand-and-one suns, and Zayn is forced to look away before he is blinded.

And slowly it hits him: Liam is an omega and that means….

“Um, Leeyum? How do you manage your, uh…uh…?” Zayn feels his cheeks burn red; it’s probably a bit too personal a question for an omega he has only known a handful of days. Still, it seems like a relevant question, under the circumstances. Zayn’s an alpha and he’s travelling with an omega and…the question is one that needs to be asked.

“Heats?” Liam supplies, not appearing offended at all. “Dafilary root,” he answers matter-of-factly, removing a large vial from a special compartment in his knapsack. “It holds my heats off so I only get them once a year or so, and they’re _much_ milder than they would be otherwise. The dafilary root also, uh, dulls my scent—as you probably guessed.”

Zayn rotates the vial slowly with his fingers, examining it with curious interest. It’s filled with a golden-grey substance, ground like the spices he’s seen lining one wall of the castle kitchens. “I’ve heard dafilary root had remarkable qualities, but I’ve never seen it or its effects first-hand,” he remarks, handing the vial back to the knight. “It’s not native to the East, you know.”

“Yes, I am aware. It is only grown in the South—and not abundantly either,” Liam replies, carefully returning the vial to his knapsack. “During my years as a freelance, I happened to pass through Barcevilla. Quite by chance, I did a good turn for the apothecary and his daughter there. He has kept me well-supplied in dafilary root ever since for a pittance.”

“So what do you do? Drink it? Sprinkle it on your food?”

Liam nods. “Yes, I like to boil it and drink it; it takes the bitterness out and the effects can last up to a fortnight that way.”

“It almost sounds like magic,” Zayn muses, and he knows a thing or two about magic, about things beyond all explanation or understanding. Zayn stares into the fire again, searching for his mother, searching for _something_. “So what happened when you returned to Easthold after your sixteenth nameday?” he asks quietly, bringing the conversation back to where they started. 

Liam looks at him, an unlikely marriage of stone-cold determination and heart-breaking sympathy in those chestnut brown eyes. “I think it might be better if we save that story for another time, my prince. We have a hard day of riding ahead of us, and you’ve had a most trying time these last two days.”

And Zayn lets it go because Liam is not ready to recount the rest of his tale, and besides, Zayn doesn’t think he is ready to hear it.

(Not just yet.)


	3. PARTE THE THRIDDE:  THE TALE OF ZAYN AND THE EBONY HORSE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Chapter title taken from 2 stories in _One Thousand and One Nights_ : "The Tale of Zayn" and "The Ebony Horse"

They ride all morning, until Zayn starts complaining that he can’t feel his legs anymore. He _can_ feel his stomach growling though. They come across an inn set alongside the river and decide to stop, mostly because Countess needs the rest.

“We need to find a horse for you and quick,” Liam says, lending Zayn a hand as the alpha dismounts after him. “I really don’t want to put Countess through another day of this.” Liam watches to make sure Countess doesn’t start moving like she did the last time Zayn dismounted second. (Liam swears she must have forgotten she had another rider on her back, but Zayn knows better; he’s seen the look in her eye. The mare wants Liam all to herself, and honestly, Zayn can’t completely blame her.) 

“We could take turns walking again,” Zayn offers once he is on solid ground, “like we did yesterday.”

Liam heaves a sigh. “Yes, I think we’ll have to; we’re not making very good time,” he worries. (Zayn doesn’t know how the man can tell because the trees and rocky hillsides are all beginning to look the same to him.) “It’s lucky no one seems to be following us thus far.”

Countess must sense her master’s unease because the destrier comes up to nestle her head on his shoulder, nearly knocking him over. “She forgets how big she is sometimes,” Liam says fondly, reaching up to scratch behind her ears as the mare whickers softly.

“She’s like a big dog,” Zayn chuckles, and the mare swings her head around to give him a death glare. Leeyum, “I hate to say it, but I’m starting to get the feeling that she doesn’t like me.”

“Sure she does,” Liam clucks, stroking her snow-white mane. “Here, come rub her neck,” he urges.

Zayn doesn’t think it’s a golden idea, interrupting the affectionate moment between the warhorse and her human. Countess and Zayn get on most of the time, especially whenever water or feed is involved, but she clearly isn’t in the mood for Zayn to come anywhere near her at the moment with the way her ears are suddenly pinned back. But Liam is looking at him encouragingly, and Zayn doesn’t want to let him down, so against his better judgment, Zayn cautiously approaches the mare. 

He isn’t even surprised when she throws her head up and snorts into the air.

Liam frowns as he gently scolds her. “I don’t think she likes alphas,” he explains. “I wouldn’t take it personally.”

“Yeah, I’m not a massive fan of alphas either to be honest,” Zayn cracks, only half-joking. “They can be a bit…much at times.”

“Yeah tell me about it,” Liam teases him, eyes crinkling up at the corners as he secures Countess to a hitching post. 

Zayn laughs heartily as they make their way towards the rambling grey stone structure. His eyes are drawn to the apple trees dotting the hillside beside the inn, branches heavy with fruit. Zayn makes a mental note to ask if they can buy a small sack to take with them. 

“Try not to do anything conspicuous,” Liam whispers to him before they enter. “Inns are notorious meeting places for the king’s spies.”

Zayn bats his eyelashes innocently. “So ordering rosewater and roast peacock is out of the question then?” he asks, taking way too much pleasure in the way Liam pales in response.

“Ha—that was a good one!” Liam blurts out, following Zayn up the path. “You _were_ joking, right?” he checks, and Zayn just snorts as he pushes open the door _._

The Humble Hog is larger than expected inside, packed with long wooden tables and benches. There is an enormous stone hearth on one end of the common room and a rickety staircase at the other end. Zayn imagines the latter leads up to rooms with comfortable beds he won’t be sleeping in tonight.

Aside from a servant or two at work in the kitchen, Zayn only counts three people: a man he guesses is the innkeeper, a young alpha around their age, and a second alpha with a weaselly face and hacking cough. Zayn supposes the common room is mostly empty because they’ve arrived at an odd hour, halfway between dinner and supper.

The innkeeper, a beta with a leering smile, ambles up to greet them. The beta flirts a little with Zayn, but the prince pays little attention to the older man’s advances. Despite being an alpha, Zayn is used to such attention, to people fawning all over him because of his title and dynamic and the looks he inherited from his mother. It doesn’t really bother him.

(But apparently, it bothers Liam…a lot.)

Chest puffed out like a rooster, Liam steps between them. “We came in for an early supper; nothing else,” he announces, narrowing his eyes at the beta.

“Nothing else?” the lecherous man echoes, looking gutted, and Zayn has to bite the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh. “Perchance your pretty squire might feel differently?”

And now it’s Liam’s turn to hide his amusement as Zayn bristles at being mistaken for Liam’s squire—or anyone’s squire for that matter. “What say you, squire?” Liam teases, brown eyes twinkling mischievously. 

“’M good,” Zayn mumbles.

“Ah, but I can tell you are a red-blooded alpha,” the innkeeper persists, making a show of scenting him (to Liam’s annoyance). “If you prefer company of another sort, I’ve some lovely omega wenches who would love to—”

“Thank you,” Liam cuts him off, “we are only interested in your food and your best mead, ale, or cider, my good man.” The knight presses a coin into the innkeeper’s palm. “Kindly bring us enough for two hungry travellers.”

“As you wish, m’lord.”

They have cider to drink and pickled meat—Zayn’s not eager to ask what kind—and vegetable pottage in trenchers. The cider isn’t spiced how he likes it, but it is refreshing after a long ride. The pottage is hardly more than a greyish-brownish sludge, and the stale bread it’s served in doesn’t enhance the flavour any. And the pickled meat is…edible. Zayn sighs, taking another spoonful of pottage. He can’t help but daydream about the kitchens back home at the castle, of the lavish banquets and the ever-present smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the courtyard from the bakehouse. Still, he hasn’t eaten a proper meal for days, so he tries to set his fruitless daydreaming aside and focus on the food in front of him. 

Liam, he notices, has no such qualms as he tucks in, foregoing the spoon and slurping down the thick pottage directly from the trencher.

Zayn makes a face, plugs his nose, and does the same; however, he almost drops his food when he hears:

“Aye, they say the king wants his bastard ‘son’ dead.”

Liam must have heard it, too, because the knight stops eating. Liam has his back to the other men, and he slowly puts a finger to his lips, signalling for Zayn not to draw attention to himself.

“Who?” a new voice asks, and although Zayn is careful not to glance up, he guesses it must be the young alpha he spotted when they first arrived.

“Well the jolly prince of course!” the older alpha snaps back at him before going into another of his coughing fits.

Zayn sucks in a breath. He has a sinking suspicion that the men are discussing him since they are still within his kingdom’s borders; however, Zayn isn’t a bastard. Indeed, he is the only son of Queen Patricia and King Ivarn of Easthold. 

“The prince is raven-haired,” the weaselly looking alpha continues, “and as everyone knows, King Ivarn’s entire line is fair of skin and hair. It's a bloody wonder no one has questioned it before.”

And it is, now that Zayn thinks about it. Zayn looks nothing like the man who is supposedly his father and acts even less like him. And with every passing year, the differences between them have become more and more obvious. Still, this new revelation sends him reeling.

“But if he’s a bastard,” the young alpha questions, “why doesn’t King Ivarn just make it known and be done with it?”

“Because, you dunderheaded codpiece,” the innkeeper interjects, “the royal bloodline stems from the late Queen Patricia, not her husband. The current king is just a placeholder until Prince Zayn comes of age.”

The young alpha scratches his head. “So when exactly does Prince Zayn come of age?”

“Never,” the older alpha cackles, “not if King Ivarn the Dreaded has his way, that is.”

“So how much is the king offering…?”

The vile conversation continues along the same vein as Zayn makes an attempt to finish his pottage, but it’s no use. His stomach is tied up in knots, and his hands are shaking with shock and…

_Rage._

He clenches his fists, trying to contain his anger as Liam gives him a silent look of warning. Zayn’s not sure what he is raging at exactly—if it’s the unscrupulous sell-swords at the far table, or the fact that he has just discovered he’s a bastard, or the fact that his mum never told him, or the fact that he’s been run out of his own home, or the fact that it was the king who sent henchmen to murder him in his sleep. The alpha in him wants to rage and rail and break things, and he can’t recall ever feeling quite like this before.

But then it passes. Gradually. Liam has his chestnut eyes locked with Zayn’s, and that is probably the only thing holding him back from doing something foolish. Slowly, Zayn lets out the breath he has been holding and unclenches his fists to find crescent moon-shaped marks from where the edges of his fingernails dug deep into the flesh of his palms.

Then, Zayn drinks his cider and goes back to eavesdropping on the men’s conversation. 

“Do you know what the prince looks like?” the innkeeper asks.

“Aye of course,” the weaselly alpha answers. “Heard he's got those witchy eyes that glow as they peer into your soul…and a limp. Prince Zayn is built like a true alpha of old: tall and thick as a tree trunk. Heard he’s homely, too, and covered in pox. They say gentlewomen, children, and omegas faint at the mere sight of him.”

Zayn and Liam exchange a look of amusement, then finish their meal. If that's the best description of him available, then Liam and Zayn will have little trouble on their journey.

They leave quietly. Once outside, Zayn stops to help himself to a horse. He has always been good with animals, and besides, he couldn’t give two turnips about whether he nicks a horse from one of the scoundrels still inside the Humble Hog.

“You’re stealing a horse?” Liam questions him, voice disapproving.

“Well, I need one, don’t I? And honestly, it’s probably stolen anyway,” Zayn reasons as he works on untying the black charger from the post. The task is made more challenging because the horse keeps straining to free himself, frantic with the first taste of freedom. 

It isn’t hard to see why.

The stallion clearly hasn’t been treated well though something about the animal’s eyes tell Zayn that this mistreatment has only been a recent development. It certainly doesn’t look its best. The horse’s legs are covered in grime to the knees as if it had been trudging through muddy water that had dried and caked in the hot midday sun. Its long, curly mane is horribly tangled and just like its coat, probably hasn’t seen a brush in ages. The horse’s hooves look as if they need tending to as well, but Zayn isn’t fool enough to take a closer look on a horse he has just met. 

“Leeyum, don’t you remember how they told us in Greygulch that my father’s men had seized all the good horses around?”

“Yes, but we don’t know for certain that this one has been stolen, do we?” Liam objects, glancing about nervously. “And even if the horse _was_ stolen, two wrongs don’t make a right.”

“Then leave a coin or two; that way we’re not exactly stealing it,” Zayn suggests. “Look, you said yourself that Countess can’t continue to carry two riders. _And_ I reckon it wouldn’t hurt to slow these sell-swords down a little.”

Liam can’t disagree with that, even if he wants to (and he definitely wants to). “Fine,” he relents, setting the bag of apples he was carrying in the horse’s empty saddlebag before taking out their collective purse and leaving two coins on top of the post. “Egad, I never fancied I’d become a horse thief.”

“I never fancied me ‘dad’ would try to murder me,” Zayn grunts, “but sometimes you gotta roll with the punches, mate.”

Liam sighs as he eyes the sleek blue-black steed. “Did you have to choose _that_ one?”

Zayn shrugs. “He chose me.”

The knight shakes his head, watching as the horse rears up, almost as if he senses Liam’s disfavour. “Guess he suits you.”

“Why? Because he’s ‘thick as a tree trunk with witchy eyes and a limp’?”

“Hardly,” Liam laughs, “although I think that alpha inside was onto something with the ‘witchy eyes’ bit,” he jokes. “No, I only meant the horse is dark, striking, and spirited—just like his new master.” Before Zayn can question him further, though, the knight has a foot in the stirrup and is swinging his other leg around. “Not to rush you, but it would be wise to leave before they discover they are missing a horse.”

Liam waits for Zayn to mount his horse before taking off at a gallop. Zayn does his best to convince his new horse to follow. He squeezes the stallion with his legs, then gently nudges his heels into the horse’s side but nothing happens. He wants to scream because the last thing he needs is to be caught stealing a horse. (To be fair, he doesn’t need Liam to see him struggling with his new horse either.) Eventually, Zayn tries clicking his tongue and the charger reacts instantly, rearing up before racing after (and past) Countess.

**+++**

Exhausted from the road, Zayn goes to sleep with a full belly that night.

He dreams of the dragon’s egg; he can almost hear it calling to him.

(Almost.)

**+++**

“Kobolt!” Zayn calls out before whistling for his horse. The blue-black stallion trots towards him, and Liam’s eyes widen in surprise. “He responds well to voice cues,” Zayn tells the knight as he removes an apple from the bag, “and bribes,” he chuckles. The horse makes a face after the first bite, and Zayn wonders if it’s because the apple is especially tart, but then the animal goes in for a second bite, crunching away loudly as Zayn patiently holds the piece of fruit out for him.

“It’s impressive though, how he’s responding to you so well after only a few days. I thought we’d have to keep him tethered for a while.”

“I told you he chose me, Leeyum,” Zayn reminds him. “But in all honesty, I think it wasn’t only me he chose,” the alpha confides, biting back a smile. “I’ve a suspicion he fancies Countess.”

Liam’s face scrunches up like a confused puppy. “Why would you say that? He hasn’t gone near her when we weren’t riding, has he?”

“You missed it, mate. When you went out foraging this morning, he tried to approach her, and she bucked and kicked him. Put him in his proper place, I think,” he laughs. “But don’t worry—we had a little chat, Kobolt and I, about respecting a lady when she asks for space.”

“Especially if she’s bigger than you,” Liam snickers.

“Or if she’s got a good set of hooves,” Zayn tacks on before brushing the stallion’s luxurious mane away from his eyes. It’s probably not very alpha of him—not King Ivarn’s version of alpha anyway—but Zayn wishes he had ribbons to secure it, shiny red and gold ribbons braided into the horse’s ebony mane. (For now, he might make do with a bit of twine or whatever they have on hand.) “Sorry, Kobolt,” he coos, “we were laughing with you, not at you, mate.”

The horse blows through his nose, then wanders off to the edge of a brook, pawing playfully at the water as Countess tries to drink from it.

“Kobolt,” the knight repeats quietly. “Is that one of those fancy prince words?”

Zayn smiles. “No, it’s a creature I’ve read about in stories from the West. It’s like a little mischievous sprite, I think?” he explains, a little embarrassed now. “I don’t know…it just sounded right.”

“I like it,” Liam replies, nodding. “It suits him.”

Anyone else would’ve told Zayn the name was ridiculous, but Liam isn’t anyone else. Zayn is just beginning to learn that.

**+++**

It takes a few days, acclimating himself to Kobolt’s sprightly gait and sudden cat-like movements. Kobolt follows most of Zayn’s commands, but the horse is mercurial at best. At times, Zayn feels like _he’s_ the one who is being tested and trained, not the other way around.

Still, Zayn would never try to ‘break’ him. As Liam notes, the stallion is spirited, and Zayn would never try to change that because that’s what he loves most about the charger.

Slowly, though, Kobolt starts to respond to his commands better. Slowly, Kobolt starts to trust him.

Slowly, they start to trust each other.

**+++**

That night, _The_ Dream comes to him again. As always, Zayn sees the raging rivers of ice and the mountains spitting fire. He feels the choking closeness of some black dungeon, feels the egg beckoning to him. 

But this time, he hears something, too—a word, a name. It repeats over and over, growing louder and more insistent with every incantation:

_Cursecall,_

_Cursecall,_

_CURSECALL._

He wakes up, a scream dying in his throat. But then, Liam is there at his side, and The Dream melts away. The stifling darkness gives way to crisp, cold air and a sky full of stars. 

“I’m all right, Leeyum. I’m…everything is fine,” Zayn rasps out, still quivering from how vividly real it had seemed this time. He suddenly realises that he’s clasping onto the knight’s arm, and he lets go (even though he doesn’t want to, not yet).

“Are you certain, my prince?”

And…no, Zayn isn’t certain. But it helps to have Liam there—he knows that much. Zayn feels safe as long as the knight is beside him. “Leeyum, would you…could you…?” He trails off, disgusted with himself. He’s an alpha (and a prince), and he shouldn’t be scared of shadows, of visions and voices haunting his dreams.

“I can move my bedroll closer if you wish?” Liam offers, and yes, that is exactly what Zayn was too ashamed to ask.

“Yes, I think I could sleep better if you were right next to me.”

Liam goes to fetch his bedroll, only about ten paces away. He lays it down less than a foot away from Zayn’s. “Is…this too close?” the knight hesitates.

“It’s perfect,” Zayn sighs contentedly. “Thank you, Leeyum.” The prince drifts off, rubbing at the frayed fabric along the edge of his bedroll, breathing in that light, comforting scent.

And his dreams are as sweet as the scent of the omega beside him.

**+++**

They’ve been on the road for over a week, and really, Zayn should have expected it. He _is_ a runaway prince, after all, travelling with just his sworn sword, and it was bound to happen, sooner or later.

They’re on a long stretch of deserted road, miles from any town, when Liam suddenly yanks back on the reins and yells for Zayn to do the same. 

“Leeyum, what is it?”

“This bridge—I don’t like it.” Liam pulls up alongside him, and Zayn is close enough now to see the worried crease of his brow.

“Why?” Zayn surveys the bridge, only a few rods away, but he can’t see anything wrong with the stone structure. From what he can tell, it appears a whole lot sturdier than the last bridge they crossed.

“The river is rocky and treacherous here, and we cannot see the nigh side of the bridge with all that brush,” Liam answers. “I don’t like it,” he repeats, craning his neck as he prods Countess to walk a few steps forward.

“Is there another way North?”

“Not unless we go back a half-a-day’s ride,” Liam informs him, frowning. “We _could_ follow the river yonder, hunt for a shallow place to cross for the horses, but I would say our chances are poor at best. I have heard that the River Thyra runs fast and deep.”

Zayn doesn’t reply because he isn’t sure what to think. All he knows is that destiny is tugging on his sleeve, and the callings just seem to get stronger and more urgent every day. 

Liam must be able to read Zayn’s answer in his expression because the knight adjusts his helmet and rests his hand on the pommel of his sword. “Stay here for now, my prince. I shall return anon.” The knight drops his visor, and then he is urging Countess onward. Zayn watches raptly, his heart beating in time to the clip-clopping of the mare’s hooves as she makes her way across the stone bridge. 

Zayn breathes a sigh of relief when the knight reaches the other side. He is just about to follow when he hears an ear-shattering squeal. Zayn can’t see clearly what is happening from his vantage point, but a second later, Countess comes charging back across the bridge at full gallop. 

Liam is nowhere to be found.

Zayn clings on to his horse as Countess gallops past them, but Kobolt doesn’t spook or throw him. The mare circles and returns, stopping only a few yards away. She lets go another terrified squeal as she rears up, then beats her front hooves back onto the ground. And that’s when Zayn sees it, the streaks of blood staining her snow-white coat.

And Liam is still nowhere to be found.

Zayn braces himself for the worst, feels almost dizzy as he reacts on gut instinct alone. The alpha clicks his tongue twice and Kobalt springs to life, carrying him across the bridge and into the jaws of death or whatever fate awaits him on the other side.

The first thing Zayn sees is a body. 

The man is lying face up, the point of a half-sword driven cleanly into his ribcage. The man’s tattered arming jacket shows only the smallest and most efficient of entry points and less blood than Zayn would have expected.

Zayn supposes he should feel something, but the only thing he feels is a dull relief that it’s not Liam.

The next sight, however, is enough to make his insides lurch. It’s a man, doubled over and screaming, while blood spurts from his gloveless hand. Zayn can see that this man’s wound isn’t fatal like his companion’s was. In fact, it appears the man is missing his thumb and a couple of fingers—more or less—but the injury is a bloody one. Zayn suspects it is the man’s sword hand, too, because he doesn’t even attempt to reclaim the sword that’s lying a few feet away among the reeds and bramble. 

But Zayn doesn’t have time to spare another thought to the man with the missing fingers because he has suddenly spotted Liam.

The omega knight is fighting with a third man, and this one is clearly an ‘alpha of old,’ bigger and brawnier than his two companions. The near-giant wields a greatsword with two hands, grunting as he slices and cuts the air in front of the knight. It seems impossible, but Liam keeps evading each swing with the grace and agility of a dancer. Despite his size and full plate armour, the omega knight is quick and light on his feet. Every now and then, the knight parries, just barely preventing the greatsword from landing a crushing blow. For the most part, however, Liam ducks and swerves and bides his time.

And finally, his time comes. 

Somehow, Liam has managed to manoeuvre himself to the high side, and he takes advantage of the change in position by initiating a series of swift, artful strokes. The knight holds the higher ground now, and he doesn’t appear ready to relinquish it any time soon. The near-giant is thrown off by the sudden advance, and he stumbles and trips down the rocky embankment before he is able to secure his footing again.

But Zayn doesn’t have a chance to see what happens after that point because he’s too busy not getting killed.

It’s the second man, the one with the missing fingers; he is brandishing a sword in his uninjured hand as he hurtles towards Zayn.

And Zayn, still in the saddle, barely has enough time to draw his sword.

There’s a clash of blades, and then suddenly, Zayn is tumbling through the air. He lands hard on his side, spitting gravel and blood. He crawls to his knees to find his attacker is already up and on his feet, sword in hand.

(All of a sudden, there’s a blood-curdling scream cut off by a loud splash. It’s driving Zayn mad, not being able to see what’s happening down by the river’s edge, but he tries hard not to think about it.

He _can’t_ , not now.)

Zayn struggles to his feet just as the man with the missing fingers lunges at him. He only just manages to evade the attack, throwing himself back to the ground again. By sheer luck, he happens to land close to where his sword had sailed when it went flying out of his hands. Zayn grabs it and leaps to his feet. He doesn’t have time to feel any pain, not now.

The man with the missing fingers lunges again, but this time Zayn is ready for him.

It’s far from beautiful, far from anything skilful or artful or even job-like, but Zayn does the best he can. He has forgotten every lesson he’s ever had, and his only concern now is grappling to stay alive. 

He starts to tire and fends off the attacks any way he can. He even uses his sword as a shield at one point, grasping it at both ends, the edge of the blade slicing through his glove and into his palm. He tries to get a proper grip on the weapon again, but he can’t because his attacker won’t let up. The man is using his off hand, and still, Zayn can’t defeat him. The best he can do is ward off the inevitable death blow.

But then a miracle happens. 

(Or, more precisely, _Liam_ happens.)

Liam takes over, pushing him out of the way. There’s a flourish of blades, but soon it becomes apparent that Zayn’s former opponent is no match for the trained knight. 

Still, it’s hard to watch. It’s _excruciating_. And the winded knight is taking much longer than Zayn would wish to finish off the final contest.

So Zayn decides to finish it for him.

There’s a large rocky ledge cut into the hill, just over where the two are fighting. Zayn scurries up to it, lying in wait. The man is fighting with his back to Zayn now, only an arm’s length away, and this is the moment the prince has been waiting for.

Zayn grabs his sword from the pointed end, swings it high above his head, and brings it down with all the force he can muster.

The hilt, adorned with the symbol of Easthold—a fearsome golden dragon, eyes set with rubies—comes crashing down upon the man’s skull. There’s a sickening sound, one Zayn doubts he’ll forget any time soon, and the man falls to the ground, striking his head once more on a rock for good measure. 

And at last, it’s all over.

It’s a blessing (and more than a little baffling) that they’ve escaped relatively unscathed. Liam doesn’t seem to have sustained any injuries at all, and Zayn’s are only minor cuts and bruises. Even Zayn’s leather-reinforced mail appears to be intact.

And really, the prince thinks Liam should be focusing on things like that rather than—

“You struck him from behind,” Liam reprimands as he removes his helmet. The knight is breathing hard and his cheeks are flushed, but other than that, one would never know he just sparred with three men.

“They were cut-throats, Leeyum,” Zayn defends himself, wiping the dirt off his breeches with his gloved hand, the one without the cut. (He’ll have to bandage the other hand directly to ensure it heals quickly.) “And I’m not a knight.”

“No, you’re a prince and princes are supposed to—”

“Not get murdered by a band of villainous cut-throats…or anyone else for that matter,” Zayn scowls. “And don’t ever tell me what princes are _supposed_ to do, yeah? Been told that all my bloody life.”

“Well, my apologies, _your Highness_ ,” the omega snaps back at him. “But how about you explain to me what you were even doing on this side of the bridge—aside from trying to get yourself killed, that is,” Liam scolds, sounding a lot like Zayn’s mum after he returned from one of his unsanctioned ‘adventures’ to the courtyard. “Zayn, I thought you said you knew how to use a bloody sword!”

Zayn bites his lip. “Yeah…so I may have _slightly_ exaggerated my abilities in that area,” he acknowledges, and Liam just humphs as he cleans his blade. The newly spilt blood makes Zayn queasy, so he looks away.

“We’ll discuss that matter later,” Liam grumbles. “We need to make haste—although I highly doubt these brigands were out for more than our purse. Even so, it would be wise to stay clear of towns and inns until we are well into the North.”

Zayn helps Liam drag the remaining two bodies to the river, hoping the water will help cleanse the men’s souls. They’re just returning from the bank when they hear the sound of hooves above them on the bridge. 

Liam is about to draw his sword, but then they see Kobolt trotting towards them, Countess only a length or two behind. Liam washes her coat clean, and Zayn is relieved to see that Liam’s beloved destrier is also unhurt. 

Then, they ride.

Zayn’s charger is fast and sure-footed, and Countess is eager to leave the gruesome scene behind. (They all are.) It’s nearly dusk before they stop to rest by a stream. 

While the horses cool down and Liam scouts for a place to make camp for the night, Zayn studies his map, the one he brought with him from the castle. He traces his finger along the road from Easthold, past Greygulch and where the River Thyra meets the North Road. And then he frowns. It feels like they’ve travelled so far, even with all the setbacks, and yet they have even farther to go. According to the map, they’re not even halfway to Cursecall.

“So,” Liam begins, surprising him, “are you ready to tell me where we’re going now?” The knight’s tone is edged with impatience, and honestly, Zayn can’t blame him after what happened back at the bridge.

Zayn sets the map down on a nearby rock. He can’t keep their destination secret any longer, no matter how much he wants to. “We’re headed for Cursecall. I need to find an egg.” Zayn looks straight into Liam’s eyes. “A _dragon’s_ egg.”

**{TO BE CONTINUED}**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is entitled "The Quest for the Dragon's Egg."


	4. PARTE THE FOURTHE:  THE QUEST FOR THE DRAGON’S EGG

There is a long silence before Liam clears his throat. “I’m sorry…I thought you just said we were on a quest for a dragon’s egg.”

Zayn gives an exasperated huff as he jumps to his feet. “See? This is exactly why I didn’t tell you!”

“But dragons don’t exist!” Liam sputters. “They haven’t existed for hundreds of years!”

Zayn’s not sure what that has to do with anything. He’s not after a dragon; he’s after a dragon’s _egg_. “You can leave anytime you want, Leeyum. No one's stopping you.”

Liam doesn’t leave though. He heaves a long sigh, shakes his head, and mutters a few words under his breath. “So any particular dragon’s egg you’re looking for or will any old egg do?”

Zayn gives him a look. “You don’t believe me.”

“Well, I mean it _is_ fantastic and—”

“Like I said, you can leave anytime you want,” Zayn snaps. “I’m an alpha and a prince; I can take care of myself.” He pretends he doesn’t hear Liam snort.

“I can’t leave. I made a pledge to your mother that—”

“Blast the damn pledge!” Zayn curses, throwing his hands in the air. “I release you from your vow, Leeyum. You can piss off now.”

Liam doesn’t get angry like Zayn suspects he would. “I’m sorry, your Highness, but that is the one command from you I cannot obey.” The knight draws his sword and plants it in the earth, then kneels before his prince, head bowed. “I made an oath to your mother that I would protect you, and on my life, I intend to keep that oath.”

Zayn gives up. He’s tired. Tired of the endless road; tired of running away from unknown and known demons; tired of trying to convince Liam (and himself) that he’s not mad. With a flippant wave, he motions for the knight to rise. “Tell me how it happened,” he says, turning away so Liam can’t see the storm brewing in his eyes. “Tell me how you came to make that oath to my mother.” 

“It all started when I was returning home from the Kingdom of the South,” Liam begins, the wind whistling through the trees behind them. “As you know, I was no longer able to train as a knight in the capital after I presented as an omega.”

“Yes, I remember. Go on,” Zayn urges, still not looking at him.

“Well, I was on the road to Easthold when I came across a carriage that was under attack. As I rode closer, I recognised the Easthold colours and flew to help the guard,” Liam continues, voice suddenly turning hard. “It shouldn’t have been difficult, that many soldiers subduing a band of brigands, except….” Liam cuts off abruptly, and Zayn turns to see why.

“Except?”

A shadow crosses the young knight’s face. “The guard at the rear were useless. They ran for cover or just stood there and did nothing like a bunch of bloody cravens,” he spits out. “It wasn’t until our win was assured that they seemed to step up. Afterwards, Sir Mortin made excuses, drivelled on about how they were busy defending a few rogues who ran off into the woods, but that’s not how I saw it,” Liam says darkly, his scent turning almost acrid. “The queen’s carriage was under attack and half the men did bugger all to defend it.”

“So it was my mother’s carriage then?”

“Yes, Queen Patricia was on her way to—”

“Shurapur,” Zayn whispers, collapsing with the weight of memories. The map lies next to him on the rock, and he picks it up and carefully traces the bold line from Easthold to Shurapur. 

Zayn knows much about Shurapur, the capital of the Kingdom of the South. He knows it is a great city, the largest in the Four Kingdoms. He knows many of the finest heroes of the Four Kingdoms have hailed from Shurapur. He also knows Liam trained to become a knight there.

And he knows his mother died in Shurapur four winters ago.

Zayn swallows thickly. “Were you able to tell my mother, about what you saw during the attack, I mean?”

“I did. I told her I had suspicions about her men’s loyalty, and she said she wasn’t surprised. She laughed strangely, said something about them being the king’s men, not hers.” Liam draws in a breath, looking down at Zayn with sure eyes. “That was when she asked me to be her sworn sword. I told her I hadn’t completed my training, but she said it didn’t matter.” The omega smiled sadly. “She said I had fought bravely and that she’d rather have one loyal green knight by her side than a thousand yellow ones.”

Zayn turns away and quickly wipes a tear away. Alphas weren’t supposed to cry and alpha princes, even less so. 

“Once we arrived in Shurapur and she was settled,” Liam continues, “she asked me to hand deliver a letter to a knight, said it was of the utmost importance and that I was not to deliver it to anyone but that knight.”

“Do you recall which knight it was?”

Liam sighs wistfully. “Could I ever forget the day I almost met Sir Yaser the Strong?”

Zayn has heard tales of the famous alpha knight, but it would be hard to find a soul in the whole of the Four Kingdoms who hadn’t. Stories of the alpha’s heroic deeds and marvellous feats had spread far and wide. Sir Yaser was a hedge knight, a knight of common birth who ultimately became captain of the knightsguard in the Kingdom of the South. It was easy to see how a boy like Liam could revere such a man. 

Zayn only knew of one connection between his mother and the now-famous knight though. He once found a dried rose pressed between the pages of book in his mother’s chamber. When he had asked her about it, she told him of the summer after her twentieth nameday, when the Tournament of the Four Kingdoms was held at Easthold. She was just a princess then, and Sir Yaser had ridden up to the royal box to present her with a rose before the joust, declaring it was a ‘rare lavender rose for a rare beauty.’ She had given him a token in return, a handkerchief she had embroidered with the crest of Easthold. She said the alpha knight was still wearing it when he was declared victor later that day.

But all that seemed insignificant and unrelated to what Liam was telling him now. That tournament took place long ago, before the Great Uprising and the arranged marriage between Princess Patricia and Lord Ivarn. It was a union made for political reasons Zayn could never hope to understand no matter how many books he read.

“So you weren’t able to deliver the letter then,” Zayn says, drawing the natural conclusion since Liam stated he never met Sir Yaser.

“Sadly, he was away and not due to return for two whole moons.”

“And what became of the letter then?” Zayn asks, curiosity piqued now.

“It was burned,” Liam answers with a heaviness in his words. “I burned it.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because she asked me to, just before she passed over.” Liam closes his eyes, and Zayn waits patiently for the omega to go on. “I had just returned from a wild goose chase. Someone had heard I was searching for Sir Yaser and shared that he was visiting friends further south. I rode there on Queen Patricia’s orders but to no avail. The trip wasted two days and when I returned, she was gravely ill.” Liam hangs his head. “She succumbed the next day to the mysterious ‘illness’ that had overtaken her so suddenly and unremorsefully, but not before asking me to swear to burn the letter and to protect you, her only child.”

“Why weren’t you there?” Zayn demands. “Why did you leave her?” It’s almost accusing, but he can’t help it. Liam was her sworn sword. He was supposed to keep her safe and—

“Believe me,” Liam interrupts him. “There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t think about that, where I don’t ask myself the same exact question.” 

Zayn suddenly feels ashamed of himself for his outburst. It clearly wasn’t Liam’s fault. The omega had merely followed Queen Patricia’s orders, and Liam was a mere boy at the time anyway. “You shouldn’t ask such questions,” Zayn says contritely, “and I shouldn’t either. Please forgive me.”

Liam merely nods. Zayn can tell the omega has forgiven him, but he suspects it will be a long time before Liam forgives himself.

Zayn reflects on everything Liam’s just told him until it makes his head hurt, until he can’t think or feel anymore (and doesn’t even want to). Truthfully, he suspected all of the betrayals and treachery from Sir Mortin and the king’s men. He wouldn’t be surprised to learn that King Ivarn was responsible for his mother’s sudden “illness,” especially after discovering the king was likely behind the plot to murder Zayn in his bed. 

And yet, only one thing sticks out in his brain. Only one thing seems to matter.

“So that’s why you’re here,” Zayn states blankly, “that’s why you’re willing to follow me all the way to Cursecall.” He looks up at Liam, waiting for an answer.

Liam bows before him. “My prince, there’s no way I could desert you now, even if I had never made that vow to your mother.” But before Zayn can discern the meaning behind the knight’s words, Liam rises and offers the alpha a hand. “We should go.”

Zayn should be apprehensive—they’re headed for a place called _Curse_ call after all—but instead, he feels almost _giddy_ as he takes Liam’s hand, and he doesn’t even know why….

Except he does. They’re going to find the egg, and that’s why Zayn’s heart is beating ten times too fast, why he feels as if he’s being carried off by butterflies. Zayn knows he’s got a much better chance of finding the egg and returning alive with a knight by his side.

That’s why he’s happy. That’s the only reason. (He’d swear by it.)

**+++**

“Zayn, let me at least show you how to hold a sword properly.” 

“I know how to hold a sword,” Zayn snaps, adjusting his new leather gloves. “I’ve been holding swords for _years_.”

“Have you now?” Liam asks, the smallest of smirks flirting at his lips. 

“Do you _really_ want me to answer that question, Leeyum?” Just as Zayn expected, the knight’s expression changes from smirking to bashful.

“So, uh, what is your sword’s name?”

Zayn frowns down at the large block of moulded steel. He really dislikes the blasted thing, but he supposes it came in handy the other day when they were set upon by bandits (or at least the heavily embellished hilt did). “Name? It’s not, like, a family sword if that’s what you mean. It was specially made and presented to me for my fifteenth nameday.”

Liam seems almost appalled. “And you didn’t name it?”

“Why would I name it, Leeyum?” Zayn thrusts the sword up in the air and nearly loses control of it.

Liam quickly sidesteps to the left to avoid being maimed. “How do you expect it to respect your commands if you can’t even bother to give it a name? How do you think Kobolt would have felt if you hadn’t named him post-haste?” he tuts, shaking his head at the prince. “One should be in harmony with one’s horse and one’s sword, Zayn.”

Zayn studies the knight a minute, trying to decide if he’s jesting or not. Zayn’s not sure, but he _is_ sure that he’s never heard such rubbish in his entire life. The alpha juts his chin in the direction of Liam’s longsword. “Oi, what’s yours named then?”

“Oathkeeper,” Liam says solemnly. “Queen Patricia named it when she presented it to me.” 

Zayn swallows, the mere mention of his mother’s name making him nostalgic for a time past as it always does. He misses his mother, misses the affinity he had with her, and he wishes he could ask her about the dreams and visions he’s been having. (Somehow, he knows she’d understand.) 

“Very fitting,” Zayn replies before directing his gaze to his own sword. _It_ dirges up different memories. Memories that revolve around his father and his expectations of Zayn as a prince and an alpha. Recent memories of how he disliked practising with it at the castle, how the blasted thing never seemed to behave how he wanted it to. And even if it is smaller than Liam’s longsword—not that size matters of course—it’s still bloody cumbersome and _heavy_ , especially with the golden dragon clinging to the hilt. 

And as Zayn stares at his sword, the only name that comes to mind is ‘backbreaker’ and something tells him Liam won’t approve of that moniker. “Sorry, I’ve nothing.”

“What if I were to name it for you?” Liam proposes, and yes, Zayn thinks that would be a bit of all right.

“Sure—what were you thinking?”

Liam looks affronted. “Well, I need to have a proper think about it, don’t I? I also want to watch the way you, uh, handle it.” 

Zayn resists the reply on the tip of his tongue, something along the lines of _‘that’s what all the omegas say’_ because Liam is still a little sensitive about his omega status, and the alpha doesn’t want to make things weird between them. And although Zayn is almost certain Liam’s excuse about needing to watch him with his sword is just a clever way of stalling, he’s relieved that he is no longer weighted with the responsibility of naming the bloody thing. “All right, Leeyum. Let me know when you come up with something. Now, let’s get on with the lesson, shall we?”

If Liam is surprised by the prince’s sudden willingness to improve his swordsmanship skills, he covers it well. And as much as Zayn hates the idea of admitting he’s rubbish at anything, he’s no fool. If they were to be attacked on the road again, Zayn would need to do a much better job of defending himself, and he figures it couldn’t hurt to practise with one of the best swordfighters he has ever seen.

“Zayn, before we get to the swords, the first thing you must remember is that sword fighting is essentially a mental game.”

“Like chess.”

Liam lights up. “Yes, exactly!” he says excitedly.

“Except one can get killed.”

“Yes,” Liam acknowledges, “but that’s not the point.”

Zayn begs to differ, but he stays quiet and lets the knight go on with his training.

“Now, the most important thing is to be aware. Aware of your environment and surroundings and how you can use them to your advantage. Aware of your opponent’s weakness and vulnerabilities, and most importantly, aware of your own limitations….”

**+++**

He’s going to miss this.

The pink sunsets behind white peaks. The purple thistle and verdant valleys. The soft velvet mornings like this one. 

( _Just_ like this one.)

The crackle of adventure in the air. A crystal blue sky and an open road. The taste of a freedom so raw it hurts.

And Liam, asleep in his bedroll only an arm’s length away—right there, right beside him.

One day, Zayn will miss all of it.

**+++**

Zayn has him this time. (He’s sure of it.)

It’s evident that Liam’s not giving his all, but still, there is sweat on the knight’s forehead. They’ve been sparring every day for the past fortnight, and the fact that Zayn is controlling the flow of the fight for once is a good sign. He is on the attack, moving in the way Liam has been coaching him. Liam counters, but Zayn is ready. The prince parries and follows it with a riposte that catches Liam off guard momentarily. The knight manages to step back and block it at the last possible moment.

It won’t be long now, but Zayn stays patient and waits for the right opening, just as Liam taught him.

It comes less than a minute later. 

Liam leaves himself in a vulnerable position at last. The knight raises his sword above his head, and Zayn goes to make a swift attack. Before he realises what’s happening though, Liam executes a quick block as if he were expecting it. Their swords cross and it takes everything the alpha has to hold his own against the omega’s surprising strength. But then all of a sudden, Liam lets up and Zayn begins to lose his balance. At the same time, the bottom of Liam’s boot connects with his groin, and Zayn goes flying backwards, hitting the grass with a soft thump.

Zayn clutches himself and lets out a long groan. “I thought the tackle was off limits,” he grouses as Liam walks over to check on him.

“We said anything not covered by armour was off limits,” Liam reminds him, poking the tip of his sword against Zayn’s chainmail which ends at his thighs. Liam looks down at him, shaggy curls framing his face. “Oh, and I win. Again.”

Zayn grumbles a string of curses under his breath. He knows he’s rubbish with swords, but he doesn’t need Liam to rub it in, especially now that Zayn’s actually _trying_. It’s probably his most alpha quality, his stubborn competitiveness, and he _really_ doesn’t like losing. To _anyone_. _Ever._

Liam appears almost sympathetic. “Zayn, I’m sorry if that hurt a bit. I was merely trying to illustrate that there is more than one way to seize the advantage,” the knight explains, sheathing his sword. “And this way, I think you’ll have a better chance of remembering the manoeuvre.”

“Oh, I’ll remember it,” Zayn grunts, still lying flat on his back. “I’m sure this ‘lesson’ will come to mind someday when I’m trying to suss out why I’m unable to carry on the family line.”

Liam’s eyes crinkle up as he smiles, and it’s almost too much to behold: the chestnut curls (longer now than when Zayn first met him), the endearing smile, and the sun rising behind him in a sort of halo effect. “You’ll be fine,” Liam assures him, helping him up. “As me dad used to say, a good, swift kick in the groin from time to time never did anyone harm.”

“Now I know where you got your family name from, Leeyum, son of _Payne_ ,” Zayn deadpans, and Liam erupts into joyous laughter.

And as much as the kick to the alpha’s manhood stings (in more ways than one), Zayn can’t help but join in as they make their way back to where Countess and his beloved Kobolt are grazing.

**+++**

The following day Zayn is cleaning up after their early supper, breathing in the subtly sweet chestnut scent that lingers in the air even when Liam’s not there.

“Need any help?” Liam asks shyly.

Zayn looks up, surprised the other boy is still hanging around. “No, you prepared the food; the least I can do is wash up,” he says, shielding his eyes from the late afternoon sun. When Liam still hesitates, Zayn shoos him off. “Go on ahead, Leeyum. I’ll be there anon.” 

They had decided to cut the day’s ride a little short. It was warmer than usual, and the horses needed a proper cool down and rest. Besides, Liam, with his uncanny sense of the land, had found a perfect area to set up camp, and they would have been fools to pass it up. The spot was a slice of paradise cut into the rocky hillside, lush and well-hidden from the road. But the best part of all was the tarn with its clear water, gently cascading falls, and white mountain flowers lining its banks. They both couldn’t wait to take a dip in the inviting water, to spend a lavish amount of time cleaning off the muck and grime from their travels.

Zayn finishes his chore and sets off. He is just rounding the hill when he stops cold, breath hitching at the sight before him. Liam is standing at the edge of the pool with his back to him. As Zayn watches from afar, the knight lifts his tunic over his head, revealing strong shoulders and the beautiful naked expanse of his back. 

Zayn turns away quickly and flattens himself against a tree, waiting until Liam has had sufficient time to fully disrobe and enter the water. It’s never bothered him this much, bathing alongside another man, but now the prospect is causing his heart to beat frantically. The mere idea of catching a glimpse of the other boy’s firm buttocks is making him feel almost feverish. 

Zayn counts to one hundred, then two, before he hears a contained splash. He figures it’s safe to look now, but as he takes a peek between his fingers, it’s really not.

Liam is wading into the middle of the pool and although his manhood is submerged, it still feels like Zayn is watching something he shouldn’t—something sacred, something for the eyes of the gods only. The golden half-light sparkles on the surface of the water and kisses the knight’s body until it shimmers like amber. The knight’s back is marked by a few scars—some long, some deep, none fresh—but they only enhance the man’s beauty because Zayn is certain each one has a tale attached to it. Zayn wishes he could hear each of those tales, wishes he could learn all the secret stories concealed behind that quiet, brave countenance. 

He wants to know Liam as he knows the inside of every volume in the castle library. He wants to know Liam as he knows the pattern of the night sky.

And as his eyes linger on Liam’s back as he washes himself, Zayn thinks he’d like to know the omega in other ways, too.

Zayn wonders what it would be like to take him, slow and easy, Liam’s strong body bending over for him. He had shared a bed with more than one omega girl before—all delicate things, dainty and soft (and nothing like the omega knight before him). Zayn had even lain with a beta—two actually. There was Niall, back when they were just boys, discovering themselves and their bodies, and there was Louis three summers ago. Louis was the bastard brother of some lesser Western princess who was rich enough for King Ivarn to deem her a suitable match for Zayn. (The West was known for having a surplus of royal families and in particular, princesses.) The tryst between Zayn and Louis had been discovered, and the whole thing had ended badly. There were tears and outrage from the princess and her parents before the pair of siblings were whisked away back to their homeland. 

As Zayn walks on, his heart aches at the thought that he might never return to Easthold. It’s not even about his rightful claim to the throne, the throne of his mother’s line of rulers and warriors (and mages and seers, too). It’s that he may never be _home_ again, that he will always be a wanderer.

Because even if Zayn does somehow return from the quest that destiny has assigned him, he will still be a runaway prince with a bounty on his head.

He’ll never be able to go home.

He is the late queen’s bastard son, and King Ivarn, the man he believed to be his father all these years, will not easily relinquish the throne he has spilt blood to keep. But if Zayn can stay away (and alive) until his first-and-twentieth nameday, then he would no longer be a prince but the rightful King of the East. In theory, Zayn would then be able to return to the castle and take his throne. He would also be expected to marry his betrothed on the following new moon, the girl he doesn’t love. 

(The girl he has never met.)

He doesn’t allow himself to ponder any more what-ifs though, to confront the small part of him that wonders whether it would be so terrible if he never went back home again, if he found a home somewhere else (or in someone else).

Suddenly, there’s a great splash, and Zayn is showered with a spray of water. He looks down to find Liam at the edge of the pool, an impish grin on his boyish face.

“Oi, what was that for?” Zayn demands, biting back a fond smile.

“Thought you wanted a bath,” Liam teases. He takes a step back, and Zayn notices the water is still only lapping at the man’s waist.

“Reckon I should probably undress first,” Zayn snorts as he sits down to unlace his boots. “How’s the water?”

“Nice but I wouldn’t wait any longer. The sun will be setting soon.”

Liam turns his back, and Zayn hurriedly sheds the rest of his garments and perches on the edge of the bank a little ways down from where Liam is stood. He takes a moment to let his feet dangle in the water before he pushes himself off—

And then he’s drowning.

The weight of his body pulls him under the surface. He’s sinking down, down, down. He hadn’t bothered to take a deep breath in before he entered the water because he assumed it was shallow.

But it’s not. He’s still sinking, and his feet haven’t even touched the bottom yet.

He’s running out of air. He starts to kick, arms flailing about wildly. His eyes burn as he searches for the light of the surface, but he can’t find it. Everything is white and foamy around him. Or blue. Dark, dark blue. 

Suddenly, sturdy arms circle his waist. Zayn doesn’t struggle as he is carried upwards, his lungs gulping for air before they even hit the surface.

And then everything is yellow. Bright, bright yellow. His ears are ringing, and his airways burn. He starts coughing, and water spills out of his mouth and nose. Somewhere he finds the strength to crawl up onto solid ground. 

It takes an eternity before his coughing subsides, before he sees the face of an angel hovering over him.

“Zayn, are you all right?” Liam asks, worry coating his voice.

“Yeah, yeah…I’m good.” 

Liam goes quiet, and Zayn uses the time to catch his breath properly. 

But the knight doesn’t stay quiet for long. 

“You idiot!” Liam explodes. “You could have _drowned_! Why in the name of the Four Kingdoms did you not tell me you couldn’t swim?!”

It’s a good question, one for which Zayn doesn’t have a good answer. “I didn’t realise it was that deep,” he offers up, but Liam isn’t having it. 

“I’ve sworn to defend your life, but ye gods, the one person I cannot defend you from is yourself!”

Zayn pulls himself up into a sitting position so they’re on the same level. “I was going to mention it, Leeyum.” 

“When?” Liam demands, and Zayn can see he’s on the verge of hysteria. “When were you going to mention the fact that you can’t swim, Zayn? _After_ you drowned or—”

“It’s all right, Leeyum,” Zayn hushes the other boy, cupping his cheeks to calm him down. He’s never seen the omega like this—this upset, this _scared_. “I saw you standing not far off, and I assumed it was shallow; I never would have jumped in otherwise.”

“But you could have—”

“Leeyum, I’m all right,” Zayn assures him, not letting go of the other boy’s face or gaze. “I’m just a little water-logged, that’s all.” 

Liam takes a shuddering breath, and Zayn can feel the other boy’s tension slowly melting away. “It’s my duty to protect you,” the knight mumbles.

Zayn leans his forehead against Liam’s and closes his eyes. “I’m sorry; I’ll try not to do something stupid like that again.”

They stay like that, foreheads pressed together, and it’s the most intimate moment they’ve shared so far. It might be the most intimate moment Zayn’s ever shared with someone who wasn’t kin.

Except…that’s what Liam is starting to feel like. Liam feels like family, and home, and all the things Zayn thought he had lost.

But then suddenly, family is the very _last_ thing on Zayn’s mind.

Because he’s naked—completely naked. He’s as naked as the day he was born and so is Liam (though he daren’t look to make certain). Zayn lets his hands fall from the other boy’s face, lets them skim down sculpted shoulders and arms kissed with water droplets. A cool breeze licks at his back, and he shivers from want as much as anything else.

Zayn knows it wouldn’t take much, another inch or two at most, to close the gap between their lips. He yearns to edge forward, to feel the knight’s rough stubble against his cheek, those full lips against his.

(It wouldn’t take much at all.)

Liam must sense it, too, because the omega is breathing harder than he was only a minute ago. They both are. 

Zayn’s skin thrums with a hunger to touch and be touched. A fire consumes him, and all he can think about is whether Liam’s mouth is as warm and inviting as his scent. He wants to surrender to it, body and soul. He wants to lay with Liam, here on the banks of the tarn.

And that’s when Zayn comes to his senses. That’s when he remembers that he is a prince and that Liam is his sworn sword, and he _can’t_ do this. He can’t let his alpha control him, can’t permit himself to take advantage of the omega knight who has vowed to serve and protect him.

Zayn pulls away and goes for his clothes. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Liam do the same. They don’t talk while they dress, don’t look at each other either until they are both decent. And in that time, it’s as if they’ve made a silent pact not to discuss whatever just happened between them.

(If anything did.)

They’re halfway back to camp before either of them speaks at all:

“Zayn, may I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you never learn to swim?”

Zayn hesitates a moment or two before answering. “Always been a little afraid of water,” he finally confesses. “My mum was, too. And my Grandpa Walter—”

“King Walter?”

“Yes. Anyway, Grandpa Walter was so terrified of water he refused to take baths. He would stand in this tall wooden tub, then one of the castle servants would get up on a stool and hold a watering pot over his head,” Zayn reveals, chuckling at the memory. “That was the one little eccentricity he had.”

Liam nods thoughtfully. “The fear of water makes sense.”

“Hmm?”

Liam stops to give him a meaningful glance. “Fire and water?” he prompts, waiting for the prince to catch on.

Zayn blinks as the realisation hits him. He feels more than a little sheepish because, yes, it seems so blatant now. He’s always had an affinity with fire and an aversion to water. And once again, it’s Liam who points out the obvious, who helps him see what’s right in front of him. “Thank you, Leeyum.”

The corner of knight’s mouth twists up in a wry smile. “I wouldn’t be a very good sworn sword if I let you drown—would I now?”

And Zayn doesn’t correct him even though that’s not precisely what he meant. Of course Zayn is grateful to Liam for rescuing him from the lake (and the castle and the bandits they met on the road), but he’s also grateful for other things. Things he can’t quite voice despite the hundreds of books he’s read.

Things, perhaps, better left unsaid.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are magical and most appreciated. :) xx  
> My Tumblr: Zqua1d


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